When I see，High on the tiptop twig of a tree，Something blue by the breezes stirred，But so far up that the blue is blurred，
’Twixt its blue and the blue of the skies，Then I know，ere a note be heard，That is naught but the Indigo bird.
Blue on the branch and blue in the sky，And naught between but the breezes high，And naught so blue by the breezes stirred As the deep，deep blue of the Indigo bird.
A song like a bird laugh，blithe and clear，As though of some airy jest he had heard The last and the most delightful word，A laugh as fresh in the August haze As it was in the fullvoiced April days，Then I know that my heart is stirredBy the laughlike song of the Indigo bird.
And naught between but the breezes high；And naught so glad on the breezes heard As the gay，gay note of the Indigo bird.
