The Field Sparrow

A bubble of music floats The slope of the hillside over— A little wandering sparrow's notes— On the bloom of yarrow and clover. And the smell of sweet-fern and the bayberry-leaf On his ripple of song are stealing; For he is a chartered thief, The wealth of the fields revealing.

One syllable, clear and soft As a raindrop's silvery patter, Or a tinkling fairy-bell, heard aloft, In the midst of the merry chatter Of robin and linnet and wren and jay, One syllable, oft-repeated: He has but a word to say, And of that he will not be cheated.

The singer I have not seen; But the song I arise and follow The brown hills over, the pastures green, And into the sunlit hollow. With the joy of a lowly heart's content I can feel my glad eyes glisten, Though he hides in his happy tent, While I stand outside and listen.

This way would I also sing, My dear little hillside neighbor! A tender carol of peace to bring To the sunburnt fields of labor, Is better than making a loud ado. Trill on, amid clover and yarrow: There's a heart-beat echoing you, And blessing you, blithe little sparrow!