Proud Songsters
- The thrushes sing as the sun is going,
- And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,
- And as it gets dark loud nightingales
- In bushes
- Pipe, as they can when April wears,
- As if all Time were theirs.
- These are brand-new birds of twelve-months’ growing,
- Which a year ago, or less than twain,
- No finches were, nor nightingales,
- Nor thrushes,
- But only particles of grain,
- And earth, and air, and rain.