A springtime bluebird spoke to me
The other day, the other day:
His coat was flecked with snowflakes cold,
In every way, the other day---
And in his eye was summer's light,
And constellations in the night,
And in his heaving breast he bore
A star born many days before.
The other day, the other day,
He trilled a Purist's song to me,
But on his crooked wing the flakes
Had glued themselves like torrid leaves---
The waves, the sails he'd seen on seas,
And all the forests' golden trees,
They sparkled in his fervid song,
And in his sweetened note belonged.
I left him there upon the bank,
Spring's last hymnal in the heather,
The other day, the other day
Perhaps he's faded to a feather.