Upon seeing a redbird burning in a tree.

I saw a redbird in a tree
And fancied it not seen of me,
Thinking myself the trespasser,
Who could, at least, not make him stir
But let him rest upon his perch
Of the peeling, pallid birch,
And rest he did, rest, and rest,
Until inward I confessed:
“What’s it to him to make him flee
And alight a different tree?
I cannot stand still here all day
While people home know I’m away;
And, he has no way to know that I
Am no trouble worth him fly;
‘Tis not my doing of his shooing
Or my fault worthy of ruing!”
Then, while staid I still,
As if he read into my will,
The redbird from his tree outflew 
And let me to continue.