The Oven Bird by Robert Frost

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There is a singer everyone has heard, / Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird, / Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.

He says that leaves are old and that for flowers / Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.

He says the early petal-fall is past / When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers / On sunny days a moment overcast; / And comes that other fall we name the fall.

He says the highway dust is over all.

The bird would cease and be as other birds / But that he knows in singing not to sing.

The question that he frames in all but words / Is what to make of a diminished thing.

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