Redbirds, redbirds,
Long and long ago,
What a honey-call you had
In hills I used to know;

Redbud, buckberry,
Wild plum-tree
And proud river sweeping
Southward to the sea,

Brown and gold in the sun
Sparkling far below,
Trailing stately round her bluffs
Where the poplars grow.

Redbirds, redbirds,
Are you singing still
As you sang one May day
On Saxton's Hill?


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Return to the Sara Teasdale library , or . . . Read the next poem; Red Maples

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