there’s a tender eastern legend,

in a volume old and rare,

of the christ-child in his garden,

walking with the children there.

and it tells—this strange, sweet story—

(true or false, ah, who shall say?)

how a bird with broken pinion

dead within the garden lay.

and the children, childish cruel,

lifted it by shattered wing,

shouting, “make us merry music,

sing, you lazy fellow, sing.”

what poor woman was

commended by christ as

having been more generous

than all the rich?

but the christ-child bent above it,

took it in his gentle hand,

full of pity for the suffering

he alone could understand.

whispered to it—o, so softly!

laid his lips upon its throat,

and the song-life, swift returning,

sounded out in one glad note.

then away on wings unwearied,

joyously it sang and soared,

and the little children, kneeling,

called the christ-child “master—lord.”