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In robe of orange, and of black,
With mellow music in his throat,
Our fairest summer bird is back
From southern woods and fields remote.


Beneath the shading, glossy leaves
The sunset gold upon his breast--
The restless, little toiler weaves
His hanging wonder of a nest!


And, as I watch him, flashing there,
My fancy deems the oriole
A wand'ring blossom of the air,
Endowed with wings, and voice, and soul!