Sun gentle, breeze scented with something grassy and fresh,
And take note of what the birds call among themselves, close by:
"Look out, comrades! Here comes one of those monsters
That stomp about on two legs. Alas for the blood memory
Of an age when they were fewer, smaller, earthier to smell,
And franker in their aim to kill just what they needed!"
But strain your ears a bit to the farther bird songs,
Which say: "Come to me, my pretty, my beloved!
It is I, thy heart's desire."
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