A Summer'S Morning That Has But One Voice; Five Hundred Stocks, Like Golden Lovers, Lean Their Heads Together, In Their Quiet Way, And But One Bird Sings, Of A Number Seen. It Is The Lark, That Louder, Louder Sings, As Though But This One Thought Possessed His Mind: 'You Silent Robin, Blackbird, Thrush, And Finch, I'll Sing Enough For All You Lazy Kind!' And When I Hear Him At This Daring Task, 'Peace, Little Bird,' I Say, 'And Take Some Rest; Stop That Wild, Screaming Fire Of Angry Song, Before It Makes A Coffin Of Your Nest.'