The birds are coming home soon;
I look for them every day;
I listen to catch the first wild strain,
For they must be singing by May.
The bluebird, he'll come first, you know,
Like a violet that has taken wings;
And the red-breast trills while his nest he builds;
I can hum the song that he sings.
And the crocus and wind flower are coming, too;
They're already upon the way;
When the sun warms the brown earth through and through,
I shall look for them any day.
Then be patient, and wait a little, my dear;
"They're coming," the winds repeat;
"We're coming! we're coming!" I 'm sure I hear,
From the grass blades that grow at my feet.