A leafy nest in covert low;
When daisies come and brambles blow,
A mate in Quaker brown.
But most I prize, past summer's prime,
When other throats have ceased to chime,
Thy faithful tree-top strain;
No brilliant bursts our ears enthrall—
A prelude with a "dying fall,"
That soothes the summer's pain.
Where blackcaps sweeten in the shade,