It but hides in its bosom to warble there warmer.
If Spring lay a couch all enameled with flowers,
It lingers, enrapt, with the soft rosy hours,
And lists the wood-birds, and the meek insect-hummer,
Through the soft, growing idless of thought-teeming Summer.
And when Fall strews a carpet of brown o’er the meadow
It rests in the dusk of some mountain’s vast shadow;
Laughs out at the vain who look in for their faces,
For it mirrors great groups of the Nations and Races.
Though the Song-stream must cease all its rich, liquid flowing