How I have wondered at the chickadee
Who, in winter, raises coal-black beak to sing
While all of nature’s fiercer creatures flee
Escaping Old Man Winter’s wicked sting.
The geese to Southern roosts do swiftly fly,
While lordly bears retire to their dens.
Beneath the ground the dormice sleeping lie,
And green snakes slither back into their fens.
But you, sweet bird, weather winter’s whetted cold,
Singing still though all the Earth lay mute.
Perched on lofty twig and warbling bold
A song of summer’s warmth and gay pursuit.

Your sunlit strains inspire me and bids all men recall
That often it’s the smallest which are the greatest of us all.