Her sight is short, she comes quite near; A foot to me's a mile to her; And she is known as Jenny Wren, The smallest bird in England. When I heard that little bird at first, Methought her frame would surely burst With earnest song. Oft had I seen Her running under leaves so green, Or in the grass when fresh and wet, As though her wings she would forget. And, seeing this, I said to her -- 'My pretty runner, you prefer To be a thing to run unheard Through leaves and grass, and not a bird!' 'Twas then she burst, to prove me wrong, Into a sudden storm of song; So very loud and earnest, I Feared she would break her heart and die. 'Nay, nay,' I laughed, 'be you no thing To run unheard, sweet scold, but sing! O I could hear your voice near me, Above the din in that oak tree, When almost all the twigs on top Had starlings singing without stop.' |