by Kate Whiting Patch
O, we are Kinfolk, she and I,—
The little mother-bird all brown,
Who broods above her nest on high,
And with her soft, bright eyes looks down
To read the secret of my heart,
—We two from all the world apart!
She dreams there in her swaying nest;
I dream here 'neath my sheltering vine.
The same love stirs her feathered breast
That makes my heart-throb seem divine.
We both dream 'neath the same kind sky,—
The small brown mother-bird, and I.