What happy hearts those feathered mortals have, That sing so sweet when they're wet through in spring! For in that month of May when leaves are young, Birds dream of song, and in their sleep they sing. And when the spring has gone and they are dumb, Is it not fine to watch them at their play: Is it not fine to see a bird that tries To stand upon the end of every spray? See how they tilt their pretty heads aside: When women make that move they always please. What cosy homes birds make in leafy walls That Nature's love has ruined--and the trees. Oft have I seen in fields the little birds Go in between a bullock's legs to eat; But what gives me most joy is when I see Snow on my doorstep, printed by their feet. OH, SWEET CONTENT! Oh, sweet content, that turns the labourer's sweat To tears of joy, and shines the roughest face; How often have I sought you high and low, And found you still in some lone quiet place; Here, in my room, when full of happy dreams, With no life heard beyond that merry sound Of moths that on my lighted ceiling kiss Their shadows as they dance and dance around; Or in a garden, on a summer's night, When I have seen the dark and solemn air Blink with the blind bats' wings, and heaven's bright face Twitch with the stars that shine in thousands there. A CHILD'S PET When I sailed out of Baltimore With twice a thousand head of sheep, They would not eat, they would not drink, But bleated o'er the deep. Inside the pens we crawled each day, To sort the living from the dead; And when we reached the Mersey's mouth Had lost five hundred head. Yet every night and day one sheep, That had no fear of man or sea, Stuck through the bars its pleading face, And it was stroked by me. And to the sheep-men standing near, 'You see,' I said, 'this one tame sheep: It seems a child has lost her pet, And cried herself to sleep.' So every time we passed it by, Sailing to England's slaughter-house, Eight ragged sheep-men--tramps and thieves-- Would stroke that sheep's black nose. ENGLAND