The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby

I heard a bird so sing, Whose music, to my thinking, pleased the king.

The woosel cock so black of hue, With orange-tawny bill, The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill-- . . . . The finch, the sparrow, and the lark, The plain-song cuckoo grey, Whose note full many a man doth mark, And dares not answer nay.

In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,When birds do sing, hey ding a ding;Sweet lovers love the spring.

Once upon a time, when women were birds, there was the simple understanding that to sing at dawn and to sing at dusk was to heal the world through joy. The birds still remember what we have forgotten, that the world is meant to be celebrated.

The Eagle, he was lord above