A-waiting for the blackbirds, with their calls like meller flutes.
Just to whistle them awake like. Oh! but now they stir and rouse
Like a girl who has bin dreamin' of her lover in a drowse,
And wakes up to feel 'is kisses on 'er softly poutin' lips.
How they burst, all a-thirst for the April shower that drips
Tinkle-tink from leaf to leaf, washing every spraylet clean
From the sooty veil of London, which might dim the buddin' green
Of the pluckiest lime-tree, sproutin' o'er brown pales in a back-yard;
For these limes bud betimes, and they find it middlin' hard
To make way at windy corners, when the lamp as lights 'em through,