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,
When to my ear, across the sky, I heard a sea-bird's scream,
And, flapping slow across the blue, I saw him flash and gleam.

I cared not then for singing birds, I loved the sun no more.
I heard the plashing of the waves upon a far-off shore,
And lonely, lonely cried my heart in answer to its call—
Ah, best I held the sea-mew's note that had no song at all!