They dimple, and seem to say:
‘We are balm fresh flung from the hand of God;
Come, bathe in our fairy spray.’
The warbling birds are my minstrels all;
Ah! they know that I love them well,
For I hasten forth, when their voices call,
To forest or leafy dell;
On buoyant pinions they come and go,
Capricious, and wild, and free,
And I sing to the children of toil and woe