That song is hardly even as wise as I— Nay, very foolishness it is. To die In March before its life were well on wing, Before its time and kindly season—why Should spring be sad—before the swallows fly— Enough to dream of such a wintry thing? Such foolish words were more unmeet for spring Than snow for summer when his heart is high; And why should words be foolish when they sing? The song-birds are not. ESTRILD. ESTRILD. Dost thou understand, Child, what the birds are singing? SABRINA. SABRINA. All the land Knows that: the water tells it to the rushes Aloud, and lower and softlier to the sand: The flower-fays, lip to lip and hand in hand, Laugh and repeat it all till darkness hushes Their singing with a word that falls and crushes All song to silence down the river-strand And where the hawthorns hearken for the thrushes. And all the secret sense is sweet and wise That sings through all their singing, and replies When we would know if heaven be gay or grey And would not open all too soon our eyes To look perchance on no such happy skies— As sleep brings close and waking blows away. ESTRILD. ESTRILD. What gives thy fancy faith enough to say This? SABRINA. SABRINA. Why, meseems the sun would hardly rise Else, nor the world be half so glad of day. ESTRILD. ESTRILD. Why didst thou crave of me that song, Sabrina? SABRINA.
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