In the valley

Myriad birds in the thicket sing,

Glancing and flitting on eager wing;

Leaves are green on the branches still,

But the autumn airs breathe chill.

Spring is over and Summer gone,

But the birds in the valley still sing on

To the broad brown hills and the quiet sky,

Though Winter is drawing nigh.

The slow wind sighs and the skies are grey.

But the little birds pipe so shrill, so gay;

So sweet to-day are the songs they sing

They will waken the banished Spring.