WHENCE is it, that amaz'd I hear
  From yonder wither'd spray,
This foremost morn of all the year,
  The melody of May?

And why, since thousands would be proud
  Of such a favour shown,
Am I selected from the crowd,
  To witness it alone?

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me,
  For that I also long
Have practis'd in the groves like thee,
  Though not like thee in song?

Or sing'st thou rather under force
  Of some divine command,
Commission'd to presage a course
  Of happier days at hand?

Thrice welcome then! for many a long
  And joyless year have I,
As thou to-day, put forth my song
  Beneath a wintry sky.

But thee no wintry skies can harm,
  When only need'st to sing,
To make ev'n January charm,
  And ev'ry season Spring.