A York Music Box
Just out of the window,
Tipped fine with a feather,
Stands a droll little box
Put compactly together.
From May till October
On the boughs it is swaying,
Making happy the heart
With the songs it is playing,
Keeping quick time and tune,
With quaver and quiver,
To the rustle of leaves
And the flow of the river.
No handicraft is finer
From Munich or Zurich,
Than this by the window
Where floats the sweet music,
When the elm branches wave,
And the blue sky discloses
The little red box,
In York's garden of roses.
With the thoughts of God in it,
Its warm breast is throbbing,--
For the droll music-box
Is a gay little robin.
by Sarah D. Clark.
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