Thou sing’st alone on the bare wintry bough,
As if Spring with its leaves were around thee now; 
And its voice that was heard in the laughing rill,
And the breeze as it whispered o’er meadow and hill,
Still fell on thine ear, as it murmured along 
To join the sweet tide of thine own gushing song.  
–Jones Very (1813–80)