William Henry Davies

Sweet Birds, I Come

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The bird that now
On bush and tree,
Near leaves so green
Looks down to see
Flowers looking up--
He either sings
In ecstasy
Or claps his wings.

Why should I slave
For finer dress
Or ornaments;
Will flowers smile less
For rags than silk?
Are birds less dumb
For tramp than squire?
Sweet birds, I come.

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