In the eve, by the hearth, how oft in solitude
I have thought of some bird found dead, deep in the wood.
In the winter's rough days, monotonous and sad,
The poor deserted nests, once resonant and glad,
Swing to the biting wind, 'neath a sky iron-grey.
Oh, many the poor birds that must then die away!
But when the spring-time comes, the time of violets,
Their skeletons we meet not to awake our regrets,
Where in April we run, amid grass springing high;
Do the birds hide themselves in some nook ere they die?
II
The school. The walls white, and the black benches in grade,
Then at Christ in wood carved, that two box branches shade;
The Sister of Mercy, a red rose in a cap,
Keeps the school with her clear eyes, and points to a map.
Some twenty girls lovely of the people sit round,
In their plain simple bonnets. There's a hum of low sound.
