Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake;
Ye dive in the sweet-flags that shadow the lake;
Ye skim where the stream parts the orchard-decked land;
Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.
Beautiful birds, ye come thickly around
When the bud’s on the branch and the snow’s on the ground;
Ye come when the richest of roses flush out,
And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies about.
—Eliza Cook.