The Southern Snow-Bird

I see a tiny fluttering form Beneath the soft snow’s soundless storm, ’Mid a strange noonlight palely shed Through mocking cloud-rifts overhead. All other birds are far from sight,— They think the day has turned to night; But he is cast in hardier mould, This chirping courier of the cold. He does not come from lands forlorn, Where midnight takes the place of morn; Nor did his dauntless heart, I know, Beat first above Siberian snow; And yet an arctic bird he seems; Though nurtured near our southern streams, The tip of his small tail may be A snow-storm in epitome.

Collection: 
English
William Hamilton Hayne

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