Whence is it that, amazed, I hear
From yonder witherd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
The melody of May?
And why, since thousands would be proud
Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd
To witness it alone?
Singst thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
For that I also long
Have practised in the groves like thee,
Though not like thee in song?
Or singst thou, rather, under force
Of some divine command,
Commissiond to presage a course
Of happier days at hand?
Thrice welcome then! for many a long
And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song
Beneath a wintry sky.
But thee no wintry skies can harm,
Who only needst to sing
To make een January charm,
And every season spring.
To The Nightingale, Which The Author Heard Sing On New Years Day.
William Cowper
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