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How early ever birds, that sing out their heart,
Sing out to dawn, sing out to spring;
How their songs can wound, with a warbler's art
And remind us of other missing things.
Happy a bird's tune, when all things right,
How happy he sings, in the tallest trees;
He sings how short, was the fearful night,
Sings out his heart to the bumble bees.
How early ever comes, that morning of dread,
The song is missing, and we can't find
The early morning warbler; because he's dead-
And can't get his songs ever out of mind.
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