Classic Poem

In autumn and winter, and far into spring,
There's a blithe little songster abroad on the wing:
His note is as chipper as chipper can be;
'T is the glad little, bright little, brave chickadee.

The sky may be threat'ning, the sky may be fair;
The bough may be leafy, the bough may be bare;
He cares not the whisk of a feather,—not he,—
This bright little, blithe little, brave chickadee!

Soft May, bleak December,—what matter to him?
He lights on a snow-wreath, or sways on a limb,
And pipes his small numbers with resolute glee,—
This bright little, smart little, brave chickadee.

I wonder if ever the world goes awry
With him and his household,—if cats, on the sly,
Invade his small homestead: how sad that would be,
You dear little, good little, brave chickadee!

But I think, even then, you'd be out the next day
With the same cheery song; and to me it would say,
“I've had lots of trouble, but still, as you see,
I'm the same little, brisk little, blithe chickadee.

“They may pester me, pillage me, rout me: what then?
I can pluck up my courage and try it again;
Who talks of repining or fretting?” says he,—
This wise little, blithe little, brave chickadee!