Classic Poem

Naught of labour, naught of sorrow,
On God's little bird doth rest,
And it questions not the morrow,
Builds itself no lasting nest.

On the bough it sleeps and swings
Till the ruddy sun appears,
Then it shakes its wings and sings,
When the voice of God it hears.

After Spring's delightful weather,
When the burning Summer's fled,
And the Autumn brings together
For men's sorrow, for men's dread,

Mists and storms in gloomy legions;
Then the bird across the main
Flies to far-off, southern regions,
Till the Spring returns again.