ss and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he,
"I love my Love, and my Love loves me."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

_The Burial of the Linnet_

Found in the garden dead in his beauty--
Oh that a linnet should die in the spring!
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, solemnly ring.

Bury him kindly, up in the corner;
Bird, beast, and goldfish are sepulchred there
Bid the black kitten march as chief mourner,
Waving her tail like a plume in the air.

Bury him nobly--next to the donkey;
Fetch the old banner, and wave it about;
Bury him deeply--think of the monkey,
Shallow his grave, and the dogs got him out.

Bury him softly--white wool around him,
Kiss his poor feathers--the first kiss and last;
Tell his poor widow kind friends have found him:
Plant his poor grave with whatever grows fast.

Farewell, sweet singer! dead in thy beauty,
Silent through summer, though other birds sing,
Bury him, comrades, in pitiful duty,
Muffle the dinner-bell, mournfully ring.

Juliana Horatia Ewing.

_The Titmouse_

. . . . Piped a tiny voice hard by,
Gay and polite, a cheerful cry,
_Chic-chicadeedee!_ saucy note
Out of sound heart and merry throat,
As if it said, "Good-day, good sir!
Fine afternoon, old passenger!
Happy to meet you in these places,
Where January brings few faces."

This poet, though he live apart,
Moved by his hospitable heart,
Sped, when I passed his sylvan fort,
To do the honors of his court,
As fits a feathered lord of land;
Flew near, with soft wing grazed my hand;
Hopped on the bough, then, darting low,
Prints his small impress on the snow,
Shows feats of his gymnastic play,
Head downward, clinging to the spray,

* * * * *

Here was this atom in full breath,
Hurling defiance at vast death.
This scrap of valor, just for play,
Fronts the north wind in waistcoat gray.

* * * * *

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

_Birds in Summer_

How pleasant