The Starling

Poor bird! why with such energy reprove
My presence? why that tone which pines and grieves?
At early dawn, thy sweet voice from the eaves
Hath gone between us oft, a voice of love,
A bond of peace. Why should I ever plot
Thy ruin, or thy fond affections baulk?
Dost thou not send me down thy happy talk
Even to my pillow, though thou seest me not?
How should I harm thee? yet thy timid eye
Is on me, and a harsh rebuke succeeds;
Not like the tender brooding note that pleads
Thy cause so well, so all-unconsciously;
Yet shall to-morrow's dawning hear thy strain
Renewed, and knit our indoor bond again.