To the Nightingale (Cowper)

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.