O little bird, why dost thou flit so,
Filling the skies with they song of woe?

Knowest thou not that a storm doth come?
Hearest thou not the thunder’s celestial drum?

It thrashes and thrums with such terrible din,
Wresting away thy song as though t’was but a sin.

Fly, little bird, fly away swift and true,
‘Til the heavens are once again swathed only in blue.