Classic Poem

Mispillion has a Phoebe bird
Whose mate I cannot see;
He only knows a single word:
“Phoebe! Phoebe!”

He flies from quince tree to rose bush
And makes all day his plea;
I love it better than the thrush—
“Phoebe! Phoebe!”

O, is she dead who built his nest
To his one harmony,
And hatched his offspring with her breast?
“Phoebe! Phoebe!”

One word goes to my lonely heart,
It fits my vacancy;
O, widower bird, I feel thy dart—
“Phoebe! Phoebe!”

Thy rest of life nest by my door,
Thy plaint is sympathy;
Sing of my mate that's gone before:
“Phoebe! Phoebe!”