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I’ll tell you how the Sun rose—
A Ribbon at a time—
The Steeples swam in Amethyst—
The news, like Squirrels, ran—
The Hills untied their Bonnets—
The Bobolinks—begun—
Then I said softly to myself—
“That must have been the Sun”!
But how he set—I know not—
There seemed a purple stile
That little Yellow boys and girls
Were climbing all the while—
Till when they reached the other side,
A Dominie in Gray—
Put gently up the evening Bars—
And led the flock away—

81

We should not mind so small a flower—
Except it quiet bring
Our little garden that we lost
Back to the Lawn again.

So spicy her Carnations nod—
So drunken, reel her Bees—
So silver steal a hundred flutes
From out a hundred trees—

That whoso sees this little flower
By faith may clear behold
The Bobolinks around the throne
And Dandelions gold.

small New World blackbird
northern states spring and summer
rice birds, bobolinks

I've been called a wandering soul.
I visualize my care flowing away,
floating on a little river.
Everyday the river waits for your reflection.
The rain stopped and the sun shined.
Am I ready?
I can sense how close you are.
I think you know it.
I find a misty course of the river to follow.
I hit a roughly-mowed bank and bounce off.
Bobolinks and Grasshopper Sparrows.
They sit upon the overhanging branches,
watching my progress.
The old fields on both sides of the river converge.
And the ride is all over.
Nothing mattered anymore.
I only wish it lasted.
And things were going so well...