SWEET BIRDS, I COME

The bird that now

On bush and tree,

Near leaves so green

Looks down to see

Flowers looking up —

He either sings

In ecstasy

Or claps his wings.

Why should I slave

For finer dress

Or ornaments;

Will flowers smile less

For rags than silk?

Are birds less dumb

For tramp than squire?

Sweet birds, I come.