Classic Poem

I hear the bluebird's quaint soliloquy,—
A hesitating note upon the breeze,
Blown faintly from the tops of distant trees.
As though he were not sure that Spring is nigh,
But fed his hopes with bursts of melody.
I would I had a spirit-harp to seize
The bolder tenor of his rhapsodies
When apple-blossoms swing against the sky.
On every dark or blust'ring wintry day
That airy harp the bluebird's lilt should play;
And as I held my sighs and paused to hear,
The wand'ring message, with its full-fed cheer
And ripe contentment, to my life should bring
The essence and fruition of the Spring.