THE BARE TREES

Unfortunates, on the bare tree!

I mourn for ye

That have no place to house,

But on those winter-white cold boughs

To sit,

( How far apart ye sit )

And brood

In this wide, wintry solitude

That has no song at all to hearten it.

Fly away, little birds!

Fly away to Spain,

Stay there all the winter

Then come back again;

Come back in the summer

When the leaves are thick;

Little weeny cold birds

Fly away quick.