Poor, lonely, little fluffy thing!
A gray mite in the cold and sleet,
With glossy head and folded wing,
Soft cuddling down upon your feet!

You know not if the morrow's sun
May find you frozen on that bough;
And don't you wonder, pretty one,
Where your next meal is waiting now?

Gaily you chirp and dodge the storm,
And turn your head and prune your wing.
Strange that from such a tiny form
So large a lesson there should spring!

I, who, well sheltered, often pine;
I, who, sometimes, have food to spare,
Am fain to join my fate with thine
If I might in thy spirit share.

Brave little bird! I thank you now
For the new courage I have found,
As I remember such as thou
Fall not unnoticed to the ground.