Unfortunates, on the bare tree!
I mourn for ye
That have no place to house,
But on those winter-white cold boughs
To sit,
(How far apart ye sit)
And brood
In this wide, wintry solitude
That has no song at all to hearten it.
Fly away, little birds!
Fly away to Spain,
Stay there all the winter
Then come back again;
Come back in the summer
When the leaves are thick;
Little weeny cold birds
Fly away quick.