A summer's 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 the 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.'