He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound,
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake.
For singing till his heaven fills,
‘Tis love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup,
And he the wine which overflows
To lift us with him when he goes.
Till lost on his aerial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.
GEORGE MEREDITH (1828-1909)
Both the poem and the composition are as English as you can possibly get. I’m not surprised that there is actually a website by this name, the name being adopted by those who wish to preserve the classic literature and music of the past.