John Burroughs Poems : The Indigo-Bird

A wingèd gem amid the trees,
A cheery strain upon the breeze
From treetop sifting down;
A leafy nest in covert low,
When daisies come and brambles blow,
A mate in Quaker brown.

But most I prize, past summer's prime,
When other throats have ceased to chime,
Thy faithful treetop strain;
No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall--
A prelude with a "dying fall"
That soothes the summer's pain.

Oh, bird inured to sun and heat,
And steeped in summer languor sweet,
The tranquil days are thine.
The season's fret and urge are o'er,
Its tide is loitering on the shore;
Make thy contentment mine!