And within their snug dominions
I can see the fledging pinions
Of the callow young, grown restless in their leafy colonnades.
The fresh morning air is ringing
With a concord of sweet singing,
From a million throats all pouring out their melody of praise;
High within the sylvan arches
Of the chestnuts, holms, and larches,
Sounds the hymning of these songsters in the forest’s darkened maze.
I love to sit at morning,