The Singer Poem by Edward Rowland Sill

SILLY bird!
When his mate is near,
Not a note of singing shall you hear.
Take his little love away,
Half the livelong day
Will his tune be heard—
Silly bird!

Sunny days
Silent basks he in the light,
Little sybarite!
But when all the room
Darkens in the gloom,
And the rain
Pours and pours along the pane,
He is bent
(Ah, the small inconsequent!)
On defying all the weather;
Rain and cloud and storm together
Naught to him,
Singing like the seraphim.

So we know a poet's ways:
Sunny days,
Silent he
In his fine serenity;
But if winds are loud,
He will pipe beneath the cloud;
And if one is far away,
Sings his heart out, as to say,—
'It may be
She will hear and come to me.'