< Foliage
SWEET BIRDS, I COME
The bird that now
On bush and tree,
Near leaves so green
Looks down to see
Flowers looking up—
He either sings
In ecstasy
Or claps his wings.
Why should I slave
For finer dress
Or ornaments;
Will flowers smile less
For rags than silk?
Are birds less dumb
For tramp than squire?
Sweet birds, I come.
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