The sun has long been set,
The stars are out by twos and threes,
The little birds are piping yet
Among the bushes and trees;

There’s a cuckoo, and one or two thrushes,
And a far-off wind that rushes,
And a sound of water that gushes,
And the cuckoo’s sovereign cry
Fills all the hollow of the sky.

Who would go “parading”
In London, “and masquerading,”
On such a night of June
With that beautiful soft half-moon,

And all these innocent bliss’s?
On such a night as this is!

-William Wordsworth