* The thrushes sing as the sun is going,
* And the finches whistle in ones and pairs,
* And as it gets dark loud nightingales
* In bushes
* Pipe, as they can when April wears,
* As if all Time were theirs.
* These are brand-new birds of twelve-months’ growing,
* Which a year ago, or less than twain,
* No finches were, nor nightingales,
* Nor thrushes,
* But only particles of grain,
* And earth, and air, and rain.
Me, back to London late tonight.