Poetry Archives

I see you, on the zigzag rails,
  You cheery little fellow!
While purple leaves are whirling down,
  And scarlet, brown, and yellow.
I hear you when the air is full
  Of snow-down of the thistle;
All in your speckled jacket trim,
  “Bob White! Bob White!” you whistle.

Tall amber sheaves, in rustling rows,
  Are nodding there to greet you;
I know that you are out for play—
  How I should like to meet you!
Though blithe of voice, so shy you are,
  In this delightful weather;
What splendid playmates you and I,
  “Bob White,” would make together!

There, you are gone! but far away
  I hear your whistle falling.
Ah! may be it is hide-and-seek,
  And that’s why you are calling.
Along those hazy uplands wide
  We’d be such merry rangers;
What! silent now, and hidden too?
  “Bob White,” don’t let’s be strangers.

Perhaps you teach your brood the game,
  In yonder rainbowed thicket,
While winds are playing with the leaves,
  And softly creaks the cricket.
“Bob White! Bob White!”—again I hear
  That blithely whistled chorus;
Why should we not companions be?
  One Father watches o’er us!