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 When the swallows homeward fly,
 When the roses scattered lie,
  When from neither hill or dale,
 read more 
 When the swallows homeward fly,
 When the roses scattered lie,
  When from neither hill or dale,
   Chants the silvery nightingale:
    In these works my bleeding heart
     Would to thee its brief impart;
      When I thus thy image lose
       Can I, ah! can I, e'er know repose? 
Never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last.
Never look for birds of this year in the nests of the last.
Better one byrde in hand than ten in the wood.
Better one byrde in hand than ten in the wood.
 Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember 
it's a sin to kill a read more 
 Shoot all the bluejays you want, if you can hit 'em, but remember 
it's a sin to kill a mockingbird. 
 The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
 The lark's is a clarion call,
  And the blackbird plays read more 
 The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
 The lark's is a clarion call,
  And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
   But I love him best of all.
    For his song is all the joy of life,
     And we in the mad spring weather,
      We two have listened till he sang
       Our hearts and lips together. 
 Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray,
 With joyous musick wake the dawning day.  
 Hear how the birds, on ev'ry blooming spray,
 With joyous musick wake the dawning day. 
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
To warm their little loves the birds complain.
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly 
shore,--
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on read more 
 Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the Nightly 
shore,--
 Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!
  Quoth the Raven "Nevermore!" 
 Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
 Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
 read more 
 Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these?
 Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught
  The dialect they speak, where melodies
   Alone are the interpreters of thought?
    Whose household words are songs in many keys,
     Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught!
   - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow,