A summers morning that has but one voice;
Five hundred stooks, like golden lovers, lean
Their heads together, in their quiet way,
And but one bird sings, of a number seen.
 
It is a lark, that louder, louder sings,
As though but this one thought possessed his mind:
"You silent robin, blackbird, thrush, and finch,
I'll sing enough for all you lazy kind!"
 
And when I hear him at this daring task,
"Peace, little bird," I say, "and take some rest;
Stop that wild, screaming fire of angry song,
Before it makes a coffin of your nest."