How sweet this morning air in spring,
  When tender is the grass, and wet!
I see some little leaves have not
  Outgrown their curly childhood yet;
And cows no longer hurry home,
However sweet a voice cries 'Come.'

Here, with green Nature all around,
  While that fine bird the skylark sings;
Who now in such a passion is,
  He flies by it, and not his wings;
And many a blackbird, thrush and sparrow
Sing sweeter songs than I may borrow.