Classic Poem

A little bird, a tender bird,
Flew singing 'neath my eaves;
Its note was one that in the soul
Unrest and yearning leaves.

'Twas not the bluebird on the branch,
'Twas not the lark on high,
Sending delicious melody
From deeps of pearly sky.

'Twas not the robin to his mate,
Piercing the matin air,
'Twas not the dove in shady wood,
Pouring mysterious prayer.

What are thou, art thou, wee, wee bird
Bathed in ecstatic song?
Those burnished plumes, that siren strain
Must to strange realms belong.

'Twas Love came singing 'neath my eaves,
My heart's eaves, tenderly;
And this the burthen of his song:
“Sweet, may I dwell with thee?”

O mystic bird, come home to me!
Here dwell and muse and sing;
Lull me forever with that strain,
Fold me beneath thy wing!