The Singing Bird, I find a song

SINGING bird within my heart
Has surely built a nest,
For every morning when I rise
So early from my rest,
I find a song for me to sing
Is waiting in my breast.

One song is of the flowers bright,
That nod in every breeze,
Of birds that in the tree-tops dwell,
Of butterflies and bees,
Of fairy-haunted woodland ways,
And tall, dark, swaying trees.

Another song it softly croons
As from a far-off land:
But this a deeper meaning has,
I don't quite understand,
Because of all the mysteries
That lie so close at hand.

These sweet songs thrill me with delight—
I carol them all day;
I hope that cheerful singing bird
Has really come to stay;
But whence it came and why it's here
I'm sure I cannot say.