One day in June a crimson-breasted bird
Flitted from Heaven through the golden air,
And lit upon an apple-bough, that stirred
With rapture of delight to hold her there;
And finding at the same time on its breast
A wealth of flowers, rose-red lined with snow,
Believed in joy its graceful little guest
Had brought them with her, and so murmured low
In greeting,—“Little bird, a poor old tree
Scarce can breathe worthily its thanks to thee,
For these sweet flowers thou hast brought to me!”
And then the pretty bird whose restless feet
Danced in and out among the blossoms there,
For very joyousness sent rippling sweet
A carol of bright laughter through the air.
Flushing with joy, the blooming sprays swung high,
Responsive to the quiver of her wings;
As light of heart beneath the summer sky
Her voice ceased suddenly its twitterings,
To murmur back, “Thou foolish, dear old tree,
It is not I who bring the flowers to thee,
But thy most tempting flowers that bring me!”