THE THRUSH SINGS

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead....

How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead?

Or though forgetting, sing — and she is dead?

O hush,

Untimely, truant Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, “I sing that she is dead!”

Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead,

Singeth the Thrush, “I sing her praise though dead.”

O hush,

Untimely, grievous Thrush!

Singeth the Thrush, “I sing your happy dead,

I sing her who is living, and no more dead,

I sing her joy — she is no longer dead.”

O hush,

Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!