Child’s Song
Little Birdie
The first in the spring,
From its earliest day,
To God do I sing;
He feeds me alway.
I sow not, nor spin,
I toil not for food;
I love the sweet spring—
Blithe, then, is my mood.
My nest’s in the field;
I live in the sky;
I skim o’er the meads;
Through flower-beds I fly.
At times o’er the streams
Like arrow I sweep;
The swiftest of steeds
Can’t pace with me keep.
And yet I am caught
By one little grain,
And thus, for my life,
A prisoner remain.
For grain, as a snare,
With cunning is set;
One glance—and lo! there,
The bird’s in the net.