The Marten Flew To The Finch'S Nest, Feathers, And Moss, And A Wisp Of Hay: "The Arrow It Sped To Thy Brown Mate'S Breast; Low In The Broom Is Thy Mate To-Day." "Liest Thou Low, Love? Low In The Broom? Feathers And Moss, And A Wisp Of Hay, Warm The White Eggs Till I Learn His Doom." She Beateth Her Wings, And Away, Away. "Ah, My Sweet Singer, Thy Days Are Told (Feathers And Moss, And A Wisp Of Hay)! Thine Eyes Are Dim, And The Eggs Grow Cold. O Mournful Morrow! O Dark To-Day!" The Finch Flew Back To Her Cold, Cold Nest, Feathers And Moss, And A Wisp Of Hay, Mine Is The Trouble That Rent Her Breast, And Home Is Silent, And Love Is Clay.