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Normale Version: SINGING BIRDS.
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SINGING BIRDS.

Sweet is thy voice, embowered Nightingale ;
But for thy praise would fail my weaker song ;
Sweet all thine airy kindred, that belong
To Nature's happiest haunts, by field or vale:

And some there are, that in the shadows pale
Of cavernous dim towns, make yearn the throng;
Prisoners are they, and blind, yet seems more strong
The melody of their lives' remembered tale.

Ye are the accepted poets ; wheresoe'er
Your notes have sounded, joy hath thither come ;
As flowers to forest wells serene and clear :

Fame wears ye not, that eats the hearts of some;
Those unambitious accents man doth hear,
And straight the importunate voice of self is dumb.