WINGSThe little bird sat on a slender limb,
And though wind and rain were rough with him,
Still kept singing.
"O Little bird, quick, seek out your nest!"
I could not help from calling;
"The bleak winds tear your tender breast,
Your tiny feet are falling."
"More need for song
When things go wrong,
I was not meant for crying;
No fear for me,"
He piped with glee,
"My wings were made for flying!"
My heart had been dark as the stormy sky
In my sorrow,
With the weight of troubles long passed by,
and the morrow.
"O little bird, sing!" I cried once more,
"The sun will soon be shining.
See, there's a rainbow arching o'er
The storm cloud's silver lining."
I, too, will sing
It will teach blessing double;
Nor yet forget.
When rude winds fret,
To fly above my trouble.