I love the little birds that sing,
The morning chorus every spring.
I never know them by their name,
But lo, they never stay the same.
The song survives as seasons change,
From mountaintop to prairie range.
The singers sing, then fall away,
New voices toil the coming day.
I hear that mockingbird from youth,
That never missed a note with truth.
My only comfort, sweet mem'ry-
Th' fresh dear choirs... serenade me.
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