HIS little friends, the birds, will miss him sore, And in their language you shall hear them cry: "Where is he gone, and will he come no more, The kindly One who went this morning by?" The birds will wonder -- until winter wan Stops song and wondering alike, and they Go south, and in that flight the absent One Is seen no longer in the wonted way. But, oh, when spring returns, and as of old The roadways and the riverways resound From populous haunts, with matings manifold, And airy voices everywhere abound, Surely, some tiny heart will beat forlorn Amidst the fleetings of the feathered race, Some thrush vent grief upon the summer morn, Some meadow-lark seek out the comrade's face? |