New Spring, 8

All the trees with joy are shouting,
All the birds are singing o’er us--
Tell me, who can be the leader
In this green and forest chorus?

Can it be the grey old plover,
Wise nods evermore renewing?
Or yon pedant, who is ever
In such measured time coo-coo-ing?

Can it be yon stork, the grave one,
His director’s airs betraying,
And his long leg rattling loudly,
Whilst the music’s round him playing?

No, the forest concert’s leader
In my own heart hath his station,
All the while he’s beating time there,--
Amor is his appellation.