Of cottage homes that looked on village greens!
An old familiar note! Who says the ear
Forgets a voice once heard? the eye, a charm?
The heart, affection's touch, from man or woman?
Not mine at least! I knew my own birds' language,
And recognised their little forms with joy.
A flock of English sparrows at my door,
With feathers ruffled in the cold north wind,
Claimed kinship with me—hospitality!—
Brown-coated things! Not for uncounted gold