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