Sunday Muse

Stout-hearted bird,
When thy blithe note I heard
From out the wind-warped tree—
There came to me
A sense of triumph, an exultant breath
Blown in the face of death.
For what are harsh and bitter circumstances
When the heart dances,
And pipes to rattling branch and icy lea

Sing loud, sing loud,
Against that leaden cloud,
That draggeth drearily,
Pour out thy free
Defiance to the sharpest winds that blow
And still increasing snow.
By courage, faith, and joy art thou attended,
And most befriended
By thine own heart, that bubbleth cheerily,

“The Chickadee” by Ethelwyn Wetherald

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