I do not see the hills around, br Nor mark the tints the copses wear; br I do not note the grassy ground br And constellated daisies there. br br I hear not the contralto note br Of cuckoos hid on either hand, br The whirr that shakes the nighthawk's throat br When eve's brown awning hoods the land. br br Some say each songster, tree and mead-- br All eloquent of love divine-- br Receives their constant careful heed: br Such keen appraisement is not mine.