In the orchard blithely waking,
Through the blossom, loud and clear,
Pipes the goldfinch, “Day is breaking;
Waken, Babsie; May is here!
Bloom is laughing; lambs are leaping;
Every new green leaflet sings;
Five chipp'd eggs will soon be cheeping;
God be praised for song and wings!”
Warm and ruddy as an ember,
Lilting sweet from bush to stone,
On the moor in chill November
Flits the stone-chat all alone:
“Snow will soon drift up the heather;
Days are short, nights cold and long;
Meanwhile in this glinting weather
God be thanked for wings and song!”
Round from Maytime to November
Babsie lilts upon the wing,
Far too happy to remember
Thanks or praise for anything;
Save at bedtime, laughing sinner,
When she gaily lisps along,
For the wings and song within her—
“Thank you, God, for wings and song!”