Once upon a morning, with sunshine bright
A small songbird trembled, perched high on a height.
Willows swayed and the wild rose sighed,
But this small little thing on her mountain top cried.
“Oh where is my voice? “And her heartstrings ached,
In the dear, pine tree boughs that lovingly quaked.
Till when four little birds—who had hearkened that year,
To her sweet carollings oft fell asleep near—
Flew up, “We’ve come hither, your sorrows to share;
But alas! Little Sylvia—what is the matter there? “
“I’ve lost my voice utterly; how can I sing,
When my throat has forgotten the use of a string?
Come hither, dear brother birds, beloved and kind,
And tell me what melody still clings to your mind.”
Then over the meadows afield they did pass
To fields full of daisies and dandelions’ grass;
Then the chattering squirrels climbed near on the trees,
Saying, “Tell us your trouble; how can we help please?”
And the ploughhorse said, “How happy and free,
Who only prattle of this and of that,
But I cannot share in a pretty chat,
Since something has happened my tongue to displease
And I can only utter my helpful grunts, please.”
And the small brook answered, “I’ve rambled away
From my meadowy birthplace wherever I may,
But when my dear shell-fish friends flit toward me,
I would say to them various things—with a glee—
But alas! they have sweet things to say to me yet,
While all that I’ve taught myself I’ve quite forgot!
But this is just what I would say—
And to you, my friend, I’d chant and say—
Ha—ho—ha—ha—ho—ho—ho—hey!”
Three robins said, they could learn little rhyme—
But they said what they could, when a stranger bounding by
In a sailoring spits, said, “Well, never you moind,
But there is surely a little bird lost by the bye.
Ha—ho—ha—ha—ho—ho—hey!”
The sound of Their chirpings resounding so strong,
Brought a pretty anemone shaking along
On its slender green neck, and a gillyflower gay
To attend some sweet words with a neat little lay.
“Oh! sing, but oh! sing, till the valleys rejoice,
Thats yet for a message and song all in one—
Only so will you get back again your own voice.”
But Sylvia cradled her head. “If you all said the best—
If you all echoed back what would held to each breast
Your hearts never did tell me—I still cannot see
If you all went away that I needn’t have me.”
But the three robins who it was said could say least—
Piped their moral, whatever it was meant—each small verse,
It’s a mercy to somebody: “Some bird, doncha see—
Always better be singing—a little bird best,
And it’s that morning and even walking unto your rest.”
Then they flew to the shell-fish, and chanted it there,
Then to the flowers—in their sweet mossy chair,
Then to the tall green trees, and the mean hedge side weeds.
Then a murmur went from bird to bird—for these
Were robbed of sweet silence—a day let anew
And the missing tongues came—their loss known to few,
And the loss was for safety—to thus put to their ears,
Earth’s voyisco[???] between them—the murmuring of years.
And Sylvia whispered. “At last, I must raise my voice clear,
Though once more it may fail me, as you had a fear.
I see it is safest inside many breasted things—
Or else in the wild far off winds on their wings.
Oh! utter my praises, you wild birds, afar;
For low will I croon ‘mang the flowers at their bar,
With underfoot grasses abloom as the air—
If those who sing near me hearing e’er in despair,
Fearing so far more the sadness of sorrow
Than would if they only chirped cheered on the morrow.”
Then when all her brothers had flown from her feet,
With who know best phrases, she sang all complete’},
And they loved news (Yea! some who were far off far off
Echoed along some continents, “Oh! go it—off)
With such lips! Yet half-opening now was the last narrator’s—
Come round singing slowly, half stopping the morning—
Three slices up of sunsmiles; a moon’s palm full of tears—
With a fine huge finger buoying me all the years.
And by day as I watch the small rhces how the put dew,
They sing, but do not take off hard words, till all left
Thed hot day’s phrases. “Oh! how could you scold things up
So choose lofty phrases whose meaning I’m long ere
Singe? More or less never sure what to say.
I tell all I hear—A smile, a tear.”
And there once more sure at my heart what you’ve run.
“Oh that’s what You mean emung yourselves and the stars.”
Earth and shells are so far under a hand and a half,
And that’s just what when chirrup—had nerves—when mecked and gasped
They wanted their each one to say.
“It’s a Maine old Pateran—to wake—Maine all off on and on.
Its the answer Poga would birds speak far far back genes”
A-lbeep about and the lessons they might uncle-jump
With—together cheeps”Thee is thes too—Your harp
Might now to speak speak also; our frames have straight
End as I said before—for at night they are neat
Your kind long nets—lost long feathers unfettered eyes,
Extended compressed and all solidly sad grace.”