Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? 



Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught 

 The dialect they speak, where melodies 



Alone are the interpreters of thought? 

 Whose household words are songs in many keys, 



Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! 

 Whose habitations in the tree-tops even 



Are half-way houses on the road to heaven ! 



Think every morning when the sun peeps through 



The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove. 

 How jubilant the happy birds renew 



Their old, melodious madrigals of love! 

 And when you think of this, remember too 



'Tis always morning somewhere, and above 

 The awakening continents, from shore to shore. 



Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. 



Longfellow. ''Birds of Killingworth. 



