Early Nightingale
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hen first we hear the shy-come nightingales,They seem to mutter oer their songs in fear,And, climb we eer so soft the spinney rails,All stops as if no bird was anywhere.The kindled bushes with the young leaves thinLet curious eyes to search a long way in,Until impatience cannot see or hearThe hidden music; gets but little wayUpon the path--when up the songs begin,Full loud a moment and then low again.But when a day or two confirms her stayBoldly she sings and loud for half the day;And soon the village brings the woodman's taleOf having heard the newcome nightingale.
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