Never a beak has my white bird, Nor throat for song; But wings of silk by soft wind stirred Bear it along. With wings of silk and a heart of seed, Over field and town It sails,—ah! quaint little bird indeed Is the thistle-down.
Collection:
Never a beak has my white bird, Nor throat for song; But wings of silk by soft wind stirred Bear it along. With wings of silk and a heart of seed, Over field and town It sails,—ah! quaint little bird indeed Is the thistle-down.
Never a beak has my white bird, Nor throat for song; But wings of silk by soft wind stirred Bear it along. With wings of silk and a heart of seed, Over field and town It sails,—ah! quaint little bird indeed Is the thistle-down.