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Bluebird Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Bluebird by Emily Dickinson
  2. The Bluebird by Maurice Thompson
  3. The Bluebird by John B. Tabb
  4. The Blue-Bird by Marion Thornton Egbert
  5. The First Bluebirds by Katharine Lee Bates
  6. The Bluebird by John Burroughs
  7. The Early Blue-Bird by Lydia Howard Sigourney
  8. An Early Bluebird by Maurice Thompson
  9. Bluebird's Greeting by George Parsons Lathrop
  10. The Bluebird by Eben Eugene Rexford
  11. To a Bluebird by George P. Guerrier
  12. The Blue Bird by Madison Cawein

Poems About Bluebirds

  1. The Bluebird

    by Emily Dickinson

    Before you thought of spring,
    Except as a surmise,
    You see, God bless his suddenness,
    A fellow in the skies
    Of independent hues,
    A little weather-worn,
    Inspiriting habiliments
    Of indigo and brown.

    With specimens of song,
    As if for you to choose,
    Discretion in the interval,
    With gay delays he goes
    To some superior tree
    Without a single leaf,
    And shouts for joy to nobody
    But his seraphic self!

  2. The Bluebird

    by Maurice Thompson

    When ice is thawed and snow is gone,
    And racy sweetness floods the trees;
    When snow-birds from the hedge have flown,
    And on the hive-porch swarm the bees,
    Drifting down the first warm wind
    That thrills the earliest days of spring,
    The bluebird seeks our maple groves,
    And charms them into tasselling.

    He sits among the delicate sprays,
    With mists of splendor round him drawn,
    And through the spring’s prophetic veil
    Sees summer’s rich fulfilment dawn:
    He sings, and his is nature’s voice—
    A gush of melody sincere
    From that great fount of harmony
    Which thaws and runs when spring is here.

    Short is his song, but strangely sweet
    To ears aweary of the low,
    Dull tramp of Winter’s sullen feet,
    Sandalled in ice and muffed in snow:
    Short is his song, but through it runs
    A hint of dithyrambs yet to be—
    A sweet suggestiveness that has
    The influence of prophecy.

    From childhood I have nursed a faith
    In bluebirds’ songs and winds of spring:
    They tell me, after frost and death
    There comes a time of blossoming;
    And after snow and cutting sleet,
    The cold, stern mood of Nature yields
    To tender warmth, when bare pink feet
    Of children press her greening fields.

    Sing strong and clear, O bluebird dear!
    While all the land with splendor fills,
    While maples gladden in the vales
    And plum-trees blossom on the hills:
    Float down the wind on shining wings,
    And do thy will by grove and stream,
    While through my life spring’s freshness runs
    Like music through a poet’s dream.

  3. The Bluebird

    by John B. Tabb

    When God had made a host of them,
    One little flower still lacked a stem
    To hold its blossom blue;
    So into it He breathed a song,
    And suddenly, with petals strong
    As wings, away it flew.

  4. The Blue-Bird

    by Marion Thornton Egbert

    Sunshine, the bird, and the bended bough,
    Hushed and afar are life's troubles now
    When here I may feel the flying feet,
    The throb of the bird's heart flutter sweet,
    And all the unforgotten bliss
    That thrills her, when she sings like this,
    Upon yon bended bough.

    Oh to cling for a wild mad moment of bliss
    To a bended bough with a lover's kiss,
    To stay for an instant the flying feet,
    To know the pain of a joy complete,
    To waken Memory, to thrill anew
    At the ghost-spray's touch, O bird of blue,
    How I envy you!

  5. The First Bluebirds

    by Katharine Lee Bates

    The poor earth was so winter-marred,
    Harried by storm so long,
    It seemed no spring could mend her,
    No tardy sunshine render
    Atonement for such wrong.
    Snow after snow, and gale and hail,
    Gaunt trees encased in icy mail,
    The glittering drifts so hard They took no trace

    Of scared, wild feet,
    No print of fox and hare
    Driven by dearth
    To forage for their meat
    Even in dooryard bare
    And frosty lawn
    Under the peril of the human race;
    And then one primrose dawn,
    Sweet, sweet, O sweet,
    And tender, tender,
    The bluebirds woke the happy earth
    With song.

  6. The Bluebird

    by John Burroughs

    A wistful note from out the sky,
    "Pure, pure, pure," in plaintive tone,
    As if the wand'rer were alone,
    And hardly knew to sing or cry.

    But now a flash of eager wing,
    Flitting, twinkling by the wall,
    And pleadings sweet and am'rous call,—
    Ah, now I know his heart doth sing!

    O bluebird, welcome back again,
    Thy azure coat and ruddy vest
    Are hues that April loveth best,—
    Warm skies above the furrowed plain.

    The farm boy hears thy tender voice,
    And visions come of crystal days,
    With sugar-camps in maple ways,
    And scenes that make his heart rejoice.

    The lucid smoke drifts on the breeze,
    The steaming pans are mantling white,
    And thy blue wing's a joyous sight,
    Among the brown and leafless trees.

    Now loosened currents glance and run,
    And buckets shine on sturdy boles,
    The forest folk peep from their holes,
    And work is play from sun to sun.

    The Downy beats his sounding limb,
    The nuthatch pipes his nasal call,
    And robin perched on treetop tall
    Heavenward lifts his evening hymn.

    Now go and bring thy homesick bride,
    Persuade her here is just the place
    To build a home and found a race
    In Downy's cell, my lodge beside.

  7. The Early Blue-Bird

    by Lydia Howard Sigourney

    Blue-bird! on yon leafless tree,
    Dost thou carol thus to me,
    "Spring is coming! Spring is here?"
    Say'st thou so, my birdie dear?
    What is that, in misty shroud,
    Stealing from the darken'd cloud?
    Lo! the snow-flakes' gathering mound
    Settles o'er the whiten'd ground,
    Yet thou singest, blithe and clear,
    "Spring is coming! Spring is here!"

    Strik'st thou not too bold a strain?
    Winds are piping o'er the plain;
    Clouds are sweeping o'er the sky
    With a black and threatening eye;
    Urchins, by the frozen rill,
    Wrap their mantles closer still;
    Yon poor man, with doublet old,
    Doth he shiver at the cold?
    Hath he not a nose of blue?
    Tell me, birdling, tell me true.

    Spring's a maid of mirth and glee,
    Rosy wreaths, and revelry:
    Hast thou woo'd some winged love
    To a nest in verdant grove?
    Sung to her of greenwood bower,
    Sunny skies that never lower?
    Lured her with thy promise fair
    Of a lot that knows no care?
    Prythee, bird, in coat of blue,
    Though a lover, tell her true.

    Ask her if, when storms are long,
    She can sing a cheerful song?
    When the rude winds rock the tree,
    If she'll closer cling to thee?
    Then the blasts that sweep the sky,
    Unappall'd shall pass thee by;
    Though thy curtain'd chamber show
    Siftings of untimely snow,
    Warm and glad thy heart shall be,
    Love shall make it Spring for thee.

  8. An Early Bluebird

    by Maurice Thompson

    Leap to the highest height of spring,
    And trill thy sweetest note,
    Bird of the heavenly plumes and twinkling wing
    And silver-tonëd throat!

    Sing, while the maple’s deepest root
    Thrills with a pulse of fire
    That lights its buds. Blow, blow thy tender flute,
    Thy reed of rich desire!

    Breathe in thy syrinx Freedom’s breath,
    Quaver the fresh and true,
    Dispel this lingering wintry mist of death
    And charm the world anew!

    Thou first sky-dipped spring-bud of song,
    Whose heavenly ecstasy
    Foretells the May while yet March winds are strong,
    Fresh faith appears with thee!

    How sweet, how magically rich,
    Through filmy splendor blown,
    Thy hopeful voice set to the promise-pitch
    Of melody yet unknown!

    O land of mine (where hope can grow
    And send a deeper root
    With every spring), hear, heed the free bird blow
    Hope’s charmëd flute!

    Ah! who will hear, and who will care,
    And who will heed thy song,
    As prophecy, as hope, as promise rare,
    Budding to bloom ere long?

    From swelling bulbs and sprouting seed,
    Sweet sap and fragrant dew,
    And human hearts, grown doubly warm at need,
    Leaps answer strong and true:

    We see, we hear (thou liberty-loving thing,
    That down spring winds doth float),
    The promise of thine empyrean wing,
    The hope that floods thy throat!

  9. Bluebird's Greeting

    by George Parsons Lathrop

    Over the mossy walls,
    Above the slumbering fields
    Where yet the ground no fruitage yields,
    Save as the sunlight falls
    In dreams of harvest-yellow,
    What voice remembered calls,—
    So bubbling fresh, so soft and mellow?

    A darting, azure-feathered arrow
    From some lithe sapling's bow-curve, fleet
    The bluebird, springing light and narrow,
    Sings in flight, with gurglings sweet:

    "Out of the South I wing,
    Blown on the breath of Spring:
    The little faltering song
    That in my beak I bring
    Some maiden shall catch and sing,
    Filling it with the longing
    And the blithe, unfettered thronging
    Of her spirit's blossoming.

    "Warbling along
    In the sunny weather,
    Float, my notes,
    Through the sunny motes,
    Falling light as a feather!
    Flit, flit, o'er the fertile land
    'Mid hovering insects' hums;
    Fall into the sower's hand:
    Then, when his harvest comes,
    The seed and the song shall have flowered together.

    "From the Coosa and Altamaha,
    With a thought of the dim blue Gulf;
    From the Roanoke and Kanawha;
    From the musical Southern rivers,
    O'er the land where the fierce war-wolf
    Lies slain and buried in flowers;
    I come to your chill, sad hours
    And the woods where the sunlight shivers.
    I come like an echo: 'Awake!'
    I answer the sky and the lake
    And the clear, cool color that quivers
    In all your azure rills.
    I come to your wan, bleak hills
    For a greeting that rises dearer,
    To homely hearts draws me nearer
    Than the warmth of the rice-fields or wealth of the ranches.

    "I will charm away your sorrow,
    For I sing of the dewy morrow:
    My melody sways like the branches
    My light feet set astir:
    I bring to the old, as I hover,
    The days and the joys that were,
    And hope to the waiting lover!
    Then, take my note and sing,
    Filling it with the longing
    And the blithe, unfettered thronging
    Of your spirit's blossoming!'

    Not long that music lingers:
    Like the breath of forgotten singers
    It flies,—or like the March-cloud's shadow
    That sweeps with its wing the faded meadow
    Not long! And yet thy fleeting,
    Thy tender, flute-toned greeting,
    O bluebird, wakes an answer that remains
    The purest chord in all the year's refrains.

  10. The Bluebird

    by Eben Eugene Rexford

    Listen a moment, I pray you; what was that sound I heard?
    Wind in the budding branches, the ripple of brooks, or a bird?
    Hear it again, above us! and see! a flutter of wings!
    The bluebird knows it is April, and soars toward the sun and sings.

    Never the song of the robin could make my heart so glad.
    When I hear the bluebird singing in spring, I forget to be sad.
    Hear it! A ripple of music! Sunshine changed into song!
    It sets me thinking of summer when the days and their dreams are long.

    Winged lute that we call a bluebird, you blend in a silver strain
    The sound of the laughing waters, the patter of spring's sweet rain,
    The voice of the winds, the sunshine, and fragrance of blossoming things.
    Ah! You are an April poem, that God has dowered with wings!

  11. To a Bluebird

    by George P. Guerrier

    O thou that wear'st the livery of the sky —
    Heaven's sovereign stamp upon thee without thrift —
    Would that I might like praise with thine uplift!
    Pour forth as seemest thou, to One on high,
    A breath as pure! but, ah, too weak am I!
    Plume as I may upon a rarer gift,
    Watching the weird cloud-phantoms chasing drift,
    And on the grass in shadow-waves flow by;
    Or fed with fancies by the rustling firs,
    The varied joy of which the mind partakes,
    And still the greater boon whence faith awakes;
    Yea, though I should attempt my very most,
    'Twould be of song alone but as a ghost,
    Compared with thine which now my heart so stirs.

  12. The Blue Bird

    by Madison Cawein

    From morn till noon upon the window-pane
    The tempest tapped with rainy finger-nails,
    And all the afternoon the blustering gales
    Beat at the door with furious feet of rain.
    The rose, near which the lily bloom lay slain,
    Like some red wound dripped by the garden rails,
    On which the sullen slug left slimy trails—
    Meseemed the sun would never shine again.
    Then in the drench, long, loud and full of cheer,—
    A skyey herald tabarded in blue,—
    A bluebird bugled…and at once a bow
    Was bent in heaven, and I seemed to hear
    God's sapphire spaces crystallising through
    The strata'd clouds in azure tremolo.

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