Hark little bird, do not fold your wings yet. Although the nighttripping hour has drawn near and beckoned all songs to cease;
Although your playmates are reposing and you are weary;
Although despair broods in the shadows and the sky is wearing a shroud;
Hark little bird do not fold your wings yet.

That which lies ahead is not the dismal foliage of the wildwood, that is the sea surging like a black Cimmerian serpent.
That is not the caper of blossoming daisies, that is the gleaming spray of the foam.
Where is your nest and where is the lush sunlit shore?
Hark little bird do not fold your wings yet.

The comfortless dark stretches ahead and the morning slumbers behind the aphotic summit.
The lame crescent wades through the abysmal dark and the stars are holding their breath counting the hours.
Hark little bird do not close your wings yet.

There is no dream and no dismay for you.
There is no utterance, no murmur, no cry.
There is no haven , no sanctuary for rest.
There is only your twain wings and the trackless sky.
So Hark little bird do not close your wings.