html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }Thy story is ended, ah, beautiful bird!
Thy song ne'er again in the grove shall be heard;
Thy life-blood has crimsoned the brown of thy breast,
And thy mate will call vainly for thee from her nest.
Wherefore hast thou lingered so long in our clime?
Didst thou not mark the coming of early fall-time?
I know thy companions have all lately flown
To the beautiful haunts of a balmier zone.
To-day in my ramblings not one note I heard,
Save the low, frightened chirps of thy trembling mate-bird,
As she restlessly fluttered aloft in the tree
Whose wide-spreading branches o'ershadowed thee.
Ah, poor widowed bird! newly robbed of thy mate,
I think of thee sadly and mourn for thy fate;
I wonder to-night if thou'lt languish and die,
Or wing thy lone flight to a lovelier sky.
I know thou wilt mourn for the beauty that's dead
And grieve for the sound of the song that has fled;
But He who doth notice the wood-sparrow's fall
Will guide all thy wanderings—hear thy least call.
September, 1870.