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William Allingham - The Lover And Birds
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Within a budding grove,
    In April`s ear sang every bird his best,
    But not a song to pleasure my unrest,
    Or touch the tears unwept of bitter love;
    Some spake, methought, with pity, some as if in jest.
                To every word
                Of every bird
            I listen`d, and replied as it behove.

            Scream`d Chaffinch, `Sweet, sweet, sweet!
    Pretty lovey, come and meet me here!`
    `Chaffinch,` quoth I, `be dumb awhile, in fear
    Thy darling prove no better than a cheat,
    And never come, or fly when wintry days appear.`
                Yet from a twig,
                With voice so big,
            The little fowl his utterance did repeat.

    Then I, `The man forlorn
    Hears Earth send up a foolish noise aloft.`
    `And what`ll he do? What`ll he do?` scoff`d
    The Blackbird, standing, in an ancient thorn,
    Then spread his sooty wings and flitted to the croft
                With cackling laugh;
                Whom I, being half
            Enraged, called after, giving back his scorn.

            Worse mock`d the Thrush, `Die! die!
    Oh, could he do it? could he do it? Nay!
    Be quick! be quick! Here, here, here!` (went his lay.)
    `Take heed! take heed!` then `Why? why? why? why? why?
    See-ee now! see-ee now!` (he drawl`d) `Back! back! back! R-r-r-run away!`
                O Thrush, be still!
                Or at thy will,
            Seek some less sad interpreter than I.

            `Air, air! blue air and white!
    Whither I flee, whither, O whither, O whither I flee!`
    (Thus the Lark hurried, mounting from the lea)
    `Hills, countries, many waters glittering bright,
    Whither I see, whither I see! deeper, deeper, deeper, whither I see, see,
    see!`
                `Gay Lark,` I said,
                `The song that`s bred
            In happy nest may well to heaven make flight.`

            `There`s something, something sad,
    I half remember`—piped a broken strain.
    Well sung, sweet Robin! Robin sung again.
    `Spring`s opening cheerily, cheerily! be we glad!`
    Which moved, I wist not why, me melancholy mad,
                Till now, grown meek,
                With wetted cheek,
            Most comforting and gentle thoughts I had.
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