The Wild Spark of a Flowerchild's Heart

The Little Bluebird

Spring comes and goes,

As the breeze blows,

In the chilly dawn the bluebird sings,

Sing thy sweet song, oh little bluebird,

When you sing the mice stir not,

Now the days are cold,

And the houses are old,

And the new stories are told,

With the wind in the willows,

And our heads on our pillows,

We hear the little bluebird sing.