THE HAWTHORN SPRAY

By Francis Brett Young

I saw a thrush light on a hawthorn spray,

One moment only, spilling creamy blossom,

While the bough bent beneath her speckled bosom,

Bent, and recovered, and she fluttered away.

The branch was still; but, in my heart, a pain

Than the thorn'd spray more cruel, stabbed me, only

Remembering days in a far land and lonely

When I had never hoped for summer again.