Could be my comrade everywhere,

My little brother of the air,

I'd choose the song-sparrow, my dear,

Because he'd bless me, every year,

With “Sweet—sweet—sweet—very merry cheer.”

1895.

 THE MARYLAND YELLOW-THROAT

 When May bedecks the naked trees With tassels and embroideries, And many blue-eyed violets beam Along the edges of the stream, I hear a voice that seems to say, Now near at hand, now far away, “Witchery—witchery—witchery.”

When May bedecks the naked trees

With tassels and embroideries,

And many blue-eyed violets beam

Along the edges of the stream,

I hear a voice that seems to say,

Now near at hand, now far away,

“Witchery—witchery—witchery.”

 An incantation so serene, So innocent, befits the scene: There's magic in that small bird's note— See, there he flits—the Yellow-throat; A living sunbeam, tipped with wings, A spark of light that shines and sings “Witchery—witchery—witchery.”

An incantation so serene,

So innocent, befits the scene:

There's magic in that small bird's note—

See, there he flits—the Yellow-throat;

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