The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 18/Number 109/The Song Sparrow
THE SONG SPARROW.
Can you hear the sparrow in the lane
Singing above the graves? she said.
He knows my gladness, he knows my pain,
Though spring be over and summer be dead.
His note hath a chime all cannot hear,
And none can love him better than I;
For he sings to me when the land is drear,
And makes it cheerful even to die.
'T is beautiful on this odorous morn,
When grasses are waving in every wind,
To know my bird is not forlorn,
That summer to him is also kind;—
But sweeter, when grasses no longer stir,
And every lilac-leaf is shed,
To know that my voiceful worshipper
Is singing above my voiceless dead.