THE LANGUAGE OF BIRDS. 
While I am lying on the grass 
Thy two-fold shout I hear, 
That seems to fill the whole air^s space, 
As loud far off, as near. 
Though babbling only to the vale. 
Of sunshine and of flowers, 
Thou bring'st unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 
Thrice welcome, darling of the spring ! 
Even yet thou art to me 
No bird, but an invisible thing, 
A voice, — a mystery. 
The same when, in my school-boy days, 
I listened to that cry. 
Which made me look a thousand ways^ 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 
To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods, and on the greeij ; 
And thou wert still a hope, a love, 
Still longed for, never seen. 
