Now each time when fancy roves
From the busy halls of trade,
We go seeking through the groves
For the whistles you have made.
Tweedle-tweet,-e-tweedle-twee,
Sounds the call; but you are gone,
Sounding clear in heart of me,
So my footsteps follow on.
June 26, 1914.
O, bird upon your swaying bough,
Teach me your secret; tell me how
You learned to find in life such joy?
What are the arts which you employ?
Why do the notes swell in your throat?
Why do you rest like some fair boat,
Upon a calm unruffled sea?
O singer, teach your song to me.
I find in life so many cares;
O, tell me, where you buy your wares,
Who sells the food you feast upon,
Which gives you joy till life is done.
The secret of the Gods you hold,
More precious far than finest gold.
Your life is full, your song is free.
O singer, teach your song to me.
Dec. 9, 1912.
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