The little birds, they do not heed nor care. The ungracious wind, the branches sear and bare, The sleety burden of the jaundiced skies Bring them no mourning, for the birds are wise. Though from their beak the stolen feather falls, Snatched where a rude and wintry blast appals, Outside my window, near the frosted pane, The sparrow builds his scattered nest again. The blackbird tunes storm-swung, on leafless tree The thrush chants forth his matchless melody, And from the ground, where famished grasses lie, The lark springs singing to the threat'ning sky. What faith is this that bade them understand The winter slain in winter-stricken land! What hope is here that carols forth in praise The coming beauty of the summer days! And thou, within the storm, and most forlorn, Whipped by the winds and by the tempest torn, Hast thou no promise from the list'ning skies? The birds have heard it—and the birds are wise.
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