by Sara Teasdale
Redbirds, redbirds,
 Long and long ago,
What a honey-call you had
 In hills I used to know;
Redbud, buckberry,
 Wild plum-tree
And proud river sweeping
 Southward to the sea,
Brown and gold in the sun
 Sparkling far below,
Trailing stately round her bluffs
 Where the poplars grow —
Redbirds, redbirds,
 Are you singing still
As you sang one May day
 On Saxton's Hill?