FOREWORD 
é¢ 
HINK, every morning when the sun 
peeps through 
The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the 
grove, 
How jubilant the happy birds renew 
Thetr 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. 
“You slay them all! and wherefore? for the 
gain 
Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, 
Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, 
Scratched up at random by industrious feet, 
Searching for worm or weevil after rain / 
Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet 
As are the songs these uninvited guests 
Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. 
Vv 
