In Memoriam, John Burroughs
His little friends, the birds, will miss him sore,
And in their language you shall hear them cry:
" Where is he gone, and will he come no more,
The kindly One who went this morning by? "
The birds will wonder — until winter wan
Stops song and wondering alike, and they
Go south, and in that flight the absent One
Is seen no longer in the wonted way.
But, oh, when spring returns, and as of old
The roadways and the riverways resound
From populous haunts, with matings manifold,
And airy voices everywhere abound,
Surely, some tiny heart will beat forlorn
Amidst the fleetings of the feathered race,
Some thrush vent grief upon the summer morn,
Some meadow-lark seek out the comrade's face?
And in their language you shall hear them cry:
" Where is he gone, and will he come no more,
The kindly One who went this morning by? "
The birds will wonder — until winter wan
Stops song and wondering alike, and they
Go south, and in that flight the absent One
Is seen no longer in the wonted way.
But, oh, when spring returns, and as of old
The roadways and the riverways resound
From populous haunts, with matings manifold,
And airy voices everywhere abound,
Surely, some tiny heart will beat forlorn
Amidst the fleetings of the feathered race,
Some thrush vent grief upon the summer morn,
Some meadow-lark seek out the comrade's face?
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