The Downy Woodpecker
Downy came and dwelt with me,
Taught me hermit lore;
Drilled his cell in oaken tree
Near my cabin door.
Architect of his own home
In the forest dim,
Carving its inverted dome
In a dozy limb.
Carved it deep and shaped it true
With his little bill;
Took no thought about the view,
Whether dale or hill.
Shook the chips upon the ground,
Careless who might see.
Hark! his hatchet's muffled sound
Hewing in the tree.
Round his door as compass-mark,
True and smooth his wall;
Just a shadow on the bark
Points you to his hall.
Downy leads a hermit life
All the winter through;
Free his days from jar and strife,
And his cares are few.
Waking up the frozen woods,
Shaking down the snows;
Many trees of many moods
Echo to his blows.
When the storms of winter rage,
Be it night or day,
Then I know my little page
Sleeps the time away.
Downy's stores are in the trees,
Egg and ant and grub;
Juicy tidbits, rich as cheese,
Hid in stump and stub.
Rat-tat-tat his chisel goes,
Cutting out his prey;
Every boring insect knows
When he comes its way.
[...] Read more
poem by John Burroughs
Added by Poetry Lover
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