The Death of the Blue Bird

Madge Elliott. January 27, 1876. Fancier's Journal 3(4): 42.

"He is dead!" said the Wind,

"Oh, who?" asked the Rose,

"The prince of the wildwood — the Blue Bird."

"And he died," said the Wind,

"Oh, why?" asked the Rose,

"Because she he loved was no true bird."

 

"Alas!" sighed the Rose,

"Ah, me I " said the Wind,

"So handsome, so tuneful, so clever."

"And she?" asked the Rose,

"False one!" said the Wind,

"In the maple chirps gaily as ever."

 

"And he lies," said the Wind,

"Oh, where? " asked the Rose,

"At the foot of the oak, in the clover."

"And the grass," said the Wind,

"Droops low," wept the Rose,

"O'er the form of the ill-fated lover."

 

"Oh, list!" said the Wind,

"I hear," sighed the Rose,

"The grave-digging beetles are coming."

"And that sound?" asked the Wind,

"Is a hymn," wept the Rose,

"That the Bee folks are solemnly humming."

 

"They are there, " said the Wind,

"And at work?" asked the Rose,

"Yes, the ground very softly they're breaking."

"They are kind," said the Wind,

"Most kind," wept the Rose,

"Such a pretty wee grave to be making."

 

"They are done," said the Wind,

"And I'll fling," said the Wind, "A rose leaf or two where he's lying."

"Take myself," sighed the Rose,

"All myself," wept the Rose, "He is dead, and for him — I am dying!"