Was there ever finer music,
Have you heard a sweeter note
Then the melodious outpouring
From a little songbird's throat?
Midst the willows, in a tree top,
Or a bough close by it's nest,
It pours forth it's paean of gladness
From it's little feathered breast.
It it needs no teacher's tuition,
Nor the pitch in music's scale,
As it chants it's song at vespers
In the twilight of the vale.
Flying south when winter threatens
It returns with vernal spring,
Think how many folk will listen
To that little songbird sing.
Giving freely of it's talent,
It performs a singer's role,
Comforting the sad and lonely,
Warming hearts that have grown cold.
February, 1949
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