  The time of the singing of birds is come; 'Tis the happiest time of the year: They are saying, "Let's build us our summer home, For the frost-king no longer we fear." The time of the singing of birds is come, And the time of their building, too; With a feather, a straw and a stray bit of gum They will shew what bird-builders can do. The time of the singing of birds is come: I was eaves-dropping under the trees; And as I translated the twitter and hum, I thought the words sounded like these: "Twirr-a-whirr, twirr-a-whirr, We will make us a nest snug and warm On this apple-tree bough— We are at it e'en now— All secure from intruders and storm. "'Tis for home, 'tis for love, 'Tis for heaven above, And our roof is the clear azure sky; The foundations we lay In this rough straw and clay, But we'll line it with moss by and by." The time of the singing of birds is here, And if under the apple-tree bough Orlando and May would a domicile rear, Let them hear what the birds tell them now: "Build for home, build for love, Build for heaven above, Build with music and cheer like the birds; And if palace or cot, Built of marble or what, Line your nest with the moss of kind words," |
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