Small chickadee, do sing this summer's day,
as dappled shadows dance in bowers deep.
Shall you trill as the violin does play,
sending me your loveliest notes to keep?

Wild meadow grasses never before shorn;
branched brambles protecting small fledgling nest.
The timeless sonata of new life born,
and God's symphony and music are best.

But when they grow and fly to fields unknown,
when time and the season's end encroaches,
the bower twill be bare and overgrown,
as stormy autumn's thunder approaches.

As unbroken movement through flowing rhyme,
hums perpetual tones of summertime.