There is a blue bird sitting on a branch of a tree

When is thawed and snow is gone, And racy sweetness floods the trees; When snow-birds from the hedge have flown, And on the hive-porch swarm the bees, Drifting down the first warm wind That thrills the earliest days of spring, The bluebird seeks our maple groves, And charms them into tasselling, HERE we came when love was young. Now that love is old, Shall we leave the floor unswept And the hearth acold? Here the hill-wind in the dusk, Wandering to and fro, Moves the moonflowers, like a ghost Of the long ago. Here from every doorway looks

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