Classic Poem

In the Beginning first was made
The nightingale; " Jug! Jug! " she sang.
Green grass and violets filled the glade,
And apple-trees in blossom sprang.

She bit her bosom till it bled,
And from the blood there grew a rose;
It blossomed where the blood was shed;
She sings to it her love and woes.

And now we birds may dwell in peace,
Our sins, through blood, forgiven all;
But, should the rose-song ever cease,
Our wood must straight in ruins fall.

Thus on the oak the sparrow wise
Tells to his son the story blest;
While, perched above with watchful eyes,
The mother peeps into the nest:

A thrifty wife and never sour,
Her only care to build and breed;
The father, just to pass an hour,
Instructs his children in the creed.