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The woodland thicket overtops me,
the blackbird sings me a lay, praise I will not conceal;
above my lined little booklet
the trilling of birds sings to me.
The clear cuckoo sings to me, lovely discourse,
in its grey cloak from the crest of the bushes;
truly – may the Lord protect me! –
Well do I write under the forest wood.

Anglo-Saxon poem