When our two souls have left this mortal clay,
  And, seeking mine, you think that mine is lost -
Look for me first in that Elysian glade
  Where Lesbia is, for whom the birds sing most.

What happy hearts those feathered mortals have,
  That sing so sweet when they're wet through in spring!
For in that month of May when leaves are young,
  Birds dream of song, and in their sleep they sing.

And when the spring has gone and they are dumb,
  Is it not fine to watch them at their play:
Is it not fine to see a bird that tries
  To stand upon the end of every spray?

See how they tilt their pretty heads aside:
  When women make that move they always please.
What cosy homes birds make in leafy walls
  That Nature's love has ruined - and the trees.

Oft have I seen in fields the little birds
  Go in between a bullock's legs to eat;
But what gives me most joy is when I see
  Snow on my doorstep, printed by their feet.