Oh bluebird with light red breast, And your blue back like a feathered sky, You have to go down south Before biting winter comes And my flower-beds are covered with fluff out of the clouds. Before you go, Sing me one more song Of tree-tops down south, Of darkies singing their babies to sleep, Of sand and glittering stones Where rivers pass; Then . . . good-by! GEOGRAPHY I can tell balsam trees By their grayish bluish silverish look of smoke. Pine trees fringe out. Hemlocks look like Christmas. The spruce tree is feathered and rough Like the legs of the red chickens in our poultry yard. I can study my geography from chickens Named for Plymouth Rock and Rhode Island, And from trees out of Canada. No; I shall leave the chickens out. I shall make a new geography of my own. I shall have a hillside of spruce and hemlock Like a separate country, And I shall mark a walk of spires on my map, A secret road of balsam trees With blue buds. Trees Fat smell like a wind out of fairy-land Where little people live Who need no geography But trees. MARCH THOUGHT I am waiting for the flowers To come back: I am alone, But I can wait for the birds. MORNING There is a brook I must hear Before I go to sleep. There is a birch tree I must visit Every night of clearness. I have to do some dreaming, I have to listen a great deal, Before light comes back By a silver arrow of cloud, And I rub my eyes and say It must be morning on this hill! SONG A scarlet bird went sailing away through the wood . . . It was only a mist of dream That floated by. Bare boughs of my apple-tree, Beautiful gray arms stretched out to me, Swaying to and fro like angels' wings . . . It was only a mist of dream That floated by. SNOWFLAKE SONG Snowflakes come in fleets Like ships over the sea. The moon shines down on the crusty snow: The stars make the sky sparkle like gold-fish In a glassy bowl. Bluebirds are gone now, But they left their song behind them. The moon seems to say: It is time for summer when the birds come back To pick up their lonesome songs. SNOWSTORM Snowflakes are dancing. They run down out of heaven. Coming home from somewhere down the long tired road They flake us sometimes The way they do the grass, And the stretch of the world. The grass-blades are crowned with snowflakes. They make me think of daisies With white frills around their necks With golden faces and green gowns; Poor little daisies, Tip-toe and shivering In the cold! POPPY