Early Nightingale

When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,

They seem to mutter o’er their songs in fear,

And, climb we e’er so soft the spinney rails,

All stops as if no bird was anywhere.

The kindled bushes with the young leaves

Let curious eyes to search a long way in,

Until impatience cannot see or

The hidden music; gets but little

Upon the path - when up the songs begin,

Full loud a moment and then low again.

But when a day or two confirms her

Boldly she sings and loud for half the day;

And soon the village brings the woodman’s

Of having heard the new-come nightingale.