Twelve little birds fly by in a row—
Bright little birds are they—
Shining and free, and as blue as can be,
And these are the hours of the day;
The sun shines warmly across their wings
As they hurry their way along;
And now and again, in their joy of things,
They carol a daytime song.
Twelve little owls fly by in a row,
Silent and dark their flight;
Gray little things, with shadowy wings,
And these are the hours of the night;
But the last of them all, as he hovers low,
Is flushed with a radiant pink;
This is the good little sunrise owl;
I like him the best, I think.
