There is a song that only gives and never takes

Sung on high from the boughs of the oaks

A warbling, wandering music it makes

From high trills to low croaks.

He sings for the pleasure of all, those who listen

From those high oaken boughs in summer heat

While dew beads on grass glitter and glisten

Singing his song from soul sung sweet.

Sits he singing joyously upon his branch unawares

Blind to footsteps crunching leaves underfoot

Tall figure, dark shadows in the sunlight

Stepping over fallen twig and root.

His song is cut short with a sudden shot of thunder

Whistling tune of pleasure and peace fading

As feathers fallen fly upwards as ashes tossed asunder

Beneath the oak boughs of the forest shading.

A silence is all the remains, a cold and subtle silence

And the wind that whistles alone without company

A sad forgotten sound brought on by man's violence

That from this world hast ripped a voice of honey.

It is a sin to have silenced so sweet and charming a voice

To have stolen the world of a piece of its beauty

That would he have stayed, if he had a choice

And till death did his sworn duty.

So listen to which voice you hear beneath the sunlit boughs

And listen long and well if the tune be honey sweet

For then the listener's soul shall be aroused

When the mockingbird under oaken trees they meet.