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The birds are coming home soon; I look for them every day; I listen to catch the first wild strain, For they must be singing by May. The bluebird, he'll come first, you know, Like a violet that has taken wings; And the red-breast trills while his nest he builds; I can hum the song that he sings. And the crocus and wind flower are coming, too; They're already upon the way; When the sun warms the brown earth through and through, I shall look for them any day. Then be patient, and wait a little, my dear; "They're coming," the winds repeat; "We're coming! we're coming!" I 'm sure I hear, From the grass blades that grow at my feet. |