The Indigo-Bird, by John Burroughs

The Indigo-Bird

Oh, late to come but long to sing,
My little finch of deep-dyed wing,
I welcome thee this day!
Thou comest with the orchard bloom,
The azure days, the sweet perfume
That fills the breath of May.   A wingè d gem amid the trees,
A cheery strain upon the breeze
From treetop sifting down;
A leafy nest in covert low,
When daisies come and brambles blow,
A mate in Quaker brown.   But most I prize, past summer's prime,
When other throats have ceased to chime,
Thy faithful treetop strain;
No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall--
A prelude with a "dying fall"
That soothes the summer's pain.   Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade,
And clematis a bower hath made,
Or in the bushy fields,
On breezy slopes where cattle graze,
At noon on dreamy August days,
Thy strain its solace yields.   Oh, bird inured to sun and heat,
And steeped in summer languor sweet,
The tranquil days are thine.
The season's fret and urge are o'er,
Its tide is loitering on the shore;
Make thy contentment mine! - John Burroughs

John Burroughs