To a Caty-Did

in a branch of willow hid Sings the evening Caty-did: From the lofty-locust bough Feeding on a drop of dew, In her suit of green arrayed Hear her singing in the shade— Caty-did, Caty-did, Caty-did! While upon a leaf you tread, Or repose your little head On your sheet of shadows laid, All the day you nothing said: Half the night your cheery tongue Revelled out its little song,— Nothing else but Caty-did. From your lodging on the leaf Did you utter joy or grief? Did you only mean to say, I have had my summer’s day, And am passing, soon, away To the grave of Caty-did: Poor, unhappy Caty-did! But you would have uttered more Had you known of nature’s power; From the world when you retreat, And a leaf’s your winding sheet, Long before your spirit fled, Who can tell but nature said,— Live again, my Caty-did! Live, and chatter Caty-did. Tell me, what did Caty do? Did she mean to trouble you? Why was Caty not forbid To trouble little Caty-did? Wrong, indeed, at you to fling, Hurting no one while you sing,— Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did! Why continue to complain? Caty tells me she again Will not give you plague or pain; Caty says you may be hid, Caty will not go to bed While you sing us Caty-did,— Caty-did! Caty-did! Caty-did! But, while singing, you forgot To tell us what did Caty not: Caty did not think of cold, Flocks retiring to the fold, Winter with his wrinkles old; Winter, that yourself foretold When you gave us Caty-did. Stay serenely on your nest; Caty now will do her best, All she can, to make you blest; But you want no human aid,— Nature, when she formed you, said, “Independent you are made, My dear little Caty-did: Soon yourself must disappear With the verdure of the year,” And to go, we know not where, With your song of Caty-did.