A SUMMER'S morning that has but one voice; Five hundred stooks, like golden lovers, lean Their heads together, in their quiet way, And but one bird sings, of a number seen. It is the lark, that louder, louder sings, As though but this one thought possessed his mind: "You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch, I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!" And when I hear him at this daring task, "Peace, little bird," I say, "and take some rest; Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song, Before it makes a coffin of your nest." |