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.