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, as they can when April wears
As if all Time were theirs

These are brand-new birds of twelve months’ 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