The Dying Bird

Upon the bough a bird, so fair,
Sings not, for death looms near;
With quivering wing, and fading air,
It bids farewell, its heart sincere.

The morning dew drops from the leaves,
As summer’s warmth begins to wane;
In nature’s lap, the spirit grieves,
As silence falls, a soft refrain.

Yet in its whispered song of sorrow,
Glows a promise to return,
In every heart that finds tomorrow,
The echo of what dared to burn.

• Lydia Sigourney