THE WOUNDED BIRD.
Never again in the wild-wood bowers
Will thy trembling notes be heard;
Never again will the branches sway
Under thee, sweet little bird!
The breath of the spring upheld thy wing,
And the summer drank thy strain;
But the plumes that fluttered the blossoms then
Never will perch again.
Never again!—in the dear, old woods
The flowers will bloom and die,
And many a shining pinion flit
Over the sun-bathed sky;
And many a note on the soft winds float,
As pure in its melody
As the frozen tones in thy fluttering heart—
But never again for thee!
The flowers will bloom and die,
And many a shining pinion flit
Over the sun-bathed sky;
And many a note on the soft winds float,
As pure in its melody
As the frozen tones in thy fluttering heart—
But never again for thee!
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