The Little Nest

A little picture haunts me; It comes and comes again; It is a tiny bird's-nest, All ragged from the rain.

It clings within a birch-tree Upon the moorland's edge, Between the barren branches, Above the swaying sedge.

The sky is gray behind it, And when the north winds blow, The birch-tree bends and shivers, And tosses to and fro.

I wonder, does it haunt them, The birds that flew away? And will they come to seek it, Some sunny summer day?

I wonder, does some redbreast Upon an orange-bough, Still picture it as plainly As I can see it now?

Ah me! I would forget it, Yet still, with sense of pain, I see this little bird's-nest Within the driving rain.