The Song Sparrow
At rest upon some quiet limb
And singing to his pretty 'marrow'
Sweet breasted friend of child and man,
I love the bright eyes and the tan,
Gray mottled coat that suits the trim
And winsome singing sparrow
He seeks no dear and lofty ground;
His home is every ridge and furrow,
In the low alder bushes he's
At home, and in the wayside trees;
Wherever man lives I have found
The nest of the song sparrow
Except among the chimney tops
A smoking where the streets are narrow;
Where man has banished living green
And scarce a blade of grass is seen
He rarely comes, he never stops,
The little rustic sparrow.
~ Philip Henry Savage : 1868-1899
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