Ethelwyn Wetherald (1857–1940)

WHEN I see,

High on the tip-top twig of a tree,

Something blue by the breezes stirred,

But so far up that the blue is blurred,

So far up that no green leaf flies

’Twixt its blue and the blue of the skies,

Then I know, ere a note be heard,

That is naught but the Indigo bird.

Blue on the branch and blue in the sky,

And naught between but the breezes high,

And naught so blue by the breezes stirred

As the deep, deep blue of the Indigo bird.

When I hear

A song like a bird laugh, blithe and clear,

As though of some airy jest he had heard

The last and the most delightful word,

A laugh as fresh in the August haze

As it was in the full-voiced April days,

Then I know that my heart is stirred

By the laugh-like song of the Indigo bird.

Joy in the branch and joy in the sky,

And naught between but the breezes high;

And naught so glad on the breezes heard

As the gay, gay note of the Indigo bird.