The old Black Willow is a singing harp
With blackbirds strumming on its fragile strings.
December's moaning winds are drear and sharp
Yet symphonies bring cheer that echoing rings
On frosty air. I love these carolers
That make a lilting spring of winter days:
A hopeful prophecy; each throat avers
That life is sleeping. August sunset-rays
In spread wings give the joy of warning skies.
I love these melodies! They bring to me
My childhood hours, my father's youthful eyes.
He loved them as I do. In memory
We listen to their songs. He often said,
"These warblers bring us hope when spring has fled."