Sunday Muse

Stout-hearted bird,

When thy blithe note I heard

From out the wind-warped tree—

Chick-a-dee-dee--

There came to me
A sense of triumph, an exultant breath

Blown in the face of death.

For what are harsh and bitter circumstances

When the heart dances,

And pipes to rattling branch and icy lea
Chick-a-dee-dee!

Sing loud, sing loud,

Against that leaden cloud,

That draggeth drearily,

Chick-a-dee-dee.
Pour out thy free

Defiance to the sharpest winds that blow

And still increasing snow.

By courage, faith, and joy art thou attended,

And most befriended
By thine own heart, that bubbleth cheerily,

Chick-a-dee-dee!

"The Chickadee" by Ethelwyn Wetherald