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Today is Apr 10, 2007.

I heard a Stock-dove sing or say
  His homely tale, this very day;
    His voice was buried among trees,
      Yet to be come at by the breeze:
        He did not cease; but cooed--and cooed:
          And somewhat pensively he wooed:
            He sang of love, with quiet blending,
              Slow to begin, and never ending;
                Of serious faith, and inward glee;
                  That was the song,--the song for me!
~William Wordsworth, O Nightingale! Thou Surely Art~













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