There, far, on the lonely branch
the finch has opened its beak.
The tree, so of fruit at last,
bears orchids smuggled so deep.
The icy nectar has been waxed
by the small unspoken bees.
The does and rays have risen,
and the tune of the birds is not far.
Dawn brough along with it the sun,
oh the pretty sun-so near,
the snow had melted, the buds had awaken,
the nightingale cowered
under the thinning moon. The night-
has grown old. Dawn has dawned.
The finch still sits on the branch.