Perchance I saw a little blue

Bird in the lofty branches overhead,

And to him I sang, “How do

You do, Mr. Bluebird? Why, surely you are wed

To a lady clad in such a dress

Worthy of your downy touch

And whose voice is no less

Glorious than your own. Though I do much

Wonder why your chest

Is splattered in a bloody red

As though to betray the heart your nest

Has stolen, or otherwise fed,

Pelican-like, to your clamoring offspring.

Oh! What a symphony you could sound! —

Self-composed and sweet—if the ring

That so limits your flight was unbound

And heaven be the color of your wing.”