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.