TO A SINGING WARBLER

“Beauty! all — all — is beauty?”

Was ever a bird so wrong!

“No young in the nest, no mate, no duty?”

Ribald! is this your song?

“Glad it is ended,” are you?

The Spring and its nuptial fear?

“And freedom is better than love?” beware you,

There will be May next year!

“Beauty!” again, still “beauty”?

Wait till the winter comes!

Till kestrel and hungry kite seek booty

And the bleak cold benumbs!

Wait? nay, fling it to heaven

The false little song you prate!

Too sweet are its fancies not to leaven

Even the rudest fate!