"Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them; thou hast thy music too,
While barred clouds bloom the softly dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river shallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge crickets sing; and now with treble soft