Poem: Bluebird’s Echo

No one can make the bluebird sing
from other than its feathered breast,
nor make the dreamer dream a dream
say that it is his sleeping rest.

Yet when to worms the heart then falls
below, there wrapt in wakeless sleep,
what memory will come to mind,
or tune to stay this darkness near?

Yet such I thought I heard the song
still sung, though life had surely gone,
and still I hope the sleeper dreams;
So is the vision which I see.

Found the picture on the blog, A Daily Thought: When A Bluebird Falls.