In the lone place of the leaves,
Where they touch the hanging eaves, 
There sprang a spray of joyous song that sounded sweet and sturdy; 
 And the baby in the bed
 Raised the shining of his head, 
And pulled the mother's lids apart to wake and watch the birdie. 
 She kissed lip-dimples sweet, 
 The red soles of his feet, 
The waving palms that patted hers as wind-blown blossoms wander; 
 He twined her tresses silk
 Round his neck as white as milk­ 
'Now, baby, say what birdie sings upon his green spray yonder.' 

 'He sings a plenty things­ 
 Just watch him wash his wings!
He says Papa will march to-day with drums home through the city. 
 Here, birdie, here's my cup. 
 You drink the milk all up; 
I'll kiss you, birdie, now you're washed like baby clean and pretty.' 

 She rose, she sought the skies
 With the twin joys of her eyes; 
She sent the strong dove of her soul up through the dawning's glory; 
 She kissed upon her hand
 The glowing golden band
That bound the fine scroll of her life and clasped her simple story.