The Bobolink That Sweetly Sings Poem by Philip Henry Savage

The bobolink that sweetly sings
Although the rain is on his wings;
The light in darkness of the moon
That builds by night another noon;

Mine, mine, mine, all mine!
The golden light in the sunset pine;
The flush green heart of the maple spray
When the sap comes up in the month of May;
The multitudinous, close advance
Of the singing grass and the little plants;
The deep, resilient, lusty feel
Of the turfy carpet under heel;
And a wakened heart, that lifts and fills
Like meadows in the April hills,
Or when the bottom and the plain
Are filled with the autumnal rain.