When June was bright with roses fair,
And leafy trees about her stood,
When summer sunshine filled the air
And flickered through the quiet wood,
There, in its shade and silent rest,
A tiny pair had built their nest.
And when July, with scorching heat,
Had dried the meadow grass to hay,
And piled in stacks about the field
Or fragrant in the barn it lay,
Within the nest so softly made
Two tiny, snowy eggs were laid.
But when October’s ripened fruit
Had bent the very tree-tops down,
And dainty flowers faded, drooped,
And stately forests lost their crown,
Their brood was hatched and reared and flown—
The mossy nest was left alone.
And now the hills are cold and white,
‘T is sever’d from its native bough;
We gaze upon it with delight;
Where are its cunning builders now?
Far in the sunny south they roam,
And leave to us their northern home.