Classic Poem

The blue bird's song is very soft,
It is not long.
You do not very often hear
A blue bird's song.

But some day after March comes in,
While gray winds blow,
You'll see a flower drifting by
Blue in the snow.

He is as blue as larkspur flowers,
And unafraid,
He looks upon the dreary waste
That Winter's made

In gardens where he'll build his nest
When April comes
With pink for old apple trees
And white for young plums.

Now almost any day
He may come by,
Brown breast and blue wing
Like earth and sky.

Bare boughs to welcome him,
He does not care,
Pointed wings cutting
The frosty air.