Oh, surpassing all expression by the rhythmic use of words,

Are the memories that gather of the singing of the birds;

When as a child I listened to the Whipporwill at dark,

And with the dawn awakened to the music of the lark.

Then what a chorus wonderful when morning had begun!

The very leaves it seemed to me were singing to the sun,

And calling on the world asleep to waken and behold

The king in glory coming forth along his path of gold.

The crimson-fronted Linnet sang above the river's edge;

The Finches from the evergreens, the Thrushes in the hedge;

Each one as if a dozen songs were chorused in his own,

And all the world were listening to him and him alone.

In gladness sang the Bobolink upon ascending wing,

With cheering voice the bird of blue, the pioneer of spring;

The Oriole upon the elm with martial note and clear,

While Martins twittered gaily by the cottage window near.

Among the orchard trees were heard the Robin and the Wren,

And the army of the Blackbirds along the marshy fen;

The songsters in the meadow, and the Quail upon the wheat,

And the Warbler's minor music, made the symphony complete.

Beyond the towering chimneyd walls that daily meet my eyes

I hold a vision beautiful, beneath the summer skies;

Within the city's grim confines, above the roaring street,

The happy birds of memory are singing clear and sweet.

—Garrett Newkirk.