FOREWORD 



rHINK, 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. 

 



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. 



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