I had loved the pretty birds that by my window sung—
The gentle thrush that had his nest the perfumed pines among;
The chaffinch with his sudden note, his song so clear and bold;
The sad rhyme of the robin, too, that came when winds grew cold;

The happy lark whose benison fell from the sunny sky;
The blackbird with his golden lute that serenaded by:
The nightingale that through the night told his low rosary;
The finches, with their little tunes, were all beloved by me.

I leaned to hear each lovely note through each enchanted day!
And thought no minstrelsy so fine, while all content I lay,