A Bird of Night

Sixg, Birdie, concealed in your Bower.
Sing, Birdie, for this is the hour,
Shake round you the musical shower,
Like Larks from their cloud in the Spring

The Star of the twilight is twinkling,
The bicycle bells are a-tinkling,
And I have a prescient inkling
That Birdie is going to sing.

She sings not for laud or for Lover;
She sings all unseen as the Dove, or
The Nightingale hid in her cover;
She sings — her delight is to sing!

I seek not my supper or pillow,
My bosom will heave like a billow,
I hang up my harp on the Willow,
And listen like anything.

Sing, Birdie, when days have been dreary,
Sing, Birdie, when hearts are a-weary,
Sing, Birdie, till spirits grow cheery,
Sing, Birdie, that never takes wing!

Sing, Birdie, in Spring or September,
From New Year to last of December
Sing, Birdie, and. never remember,
That any one's listening!