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 pipe as they can when April wears
As if all time were theirs
These are brand new birds of twelvemonths' 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
