The little bird sits at the edge of the forest, And with all her having, she watches the place, She knows that she must be there the next moment, But the woods are enough to take care of her grace.

The more she sings, the more the trees hear her, And I wonder what is it that she sees is true. It could be they don’t see her, nor hear her, In her way, as in any better view.

I am not there: I am waiting, waiting, For her call, and for the shining of skies. I may be far, but my heart is with her, And the weight of the earth is, so far in disguise.

• Robert Frost