Poem for February 18, 2026

When 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 thin

Let curious eyes to search a long way in,

Until impatience cannot see or hear

The hidden music; gets but little way

Upon the path--when up the songs begin,

Full loud a moment and then low again.

But when a day or two confirms her stay

Boldly she sings and loud for half the day;

And soon the village brings the woodman's tale

Of having heard the newcome nightingale.