Classic Poem

Bright is the holly underneath the pines,
Purple the fox grape, clambering in vines,
Blue and sweet upon its bush hangs the humble haw,
Coy the mauve May apple and the brown paw-paw;
Jelly in my drinking ear drops a juicy hymn —
'Tis the little grey bird, singing on a limb!

Mystic is the calamus, springing in the burn,
Whose sun flashing fountains know not where to turn;
Lone the white magnolia scents the forest shade,
Halts the squirrel for a smell in the everglade;
Solemn are the shats and bark of the forest dim,
Till the little grey bird flutes them from the limb!

The red-tufted woodpecker hides behind the trunk,
Like the crow in treetops, silent as a monk;
Grassy green the willow in the damp pool stands,
Strengthened by the iron melting from the sands;
We would not believe the sun lent the woods the vim
Of the little grey bird warbling from the limb!