TO A TAWNY THRUSH

Pine spirit!

Breath and voice of a wild glade!

In the wild forest near it,

In the cool hemlock or the leafy limb,

Whereunder

Thou didst run and wander

Thro’ the sun and shade,

An elvish echo and a shadow dim,

There in the twilight thou dost lift thy song,

And give the stilly woods a silver tongue.

Out of what liquid is thy laughing made?

A sister of the water thou dost seem,

The quivering cataract thou singest near,

Whose glistening stream,

Unto the listening ear,

Thou dost outrun with thy cascade

Of music beautiful and swift and clear —

A joy unto the mournful forest given!

As when afar

A travelling star

Across our midnight races,

A moving gleam that quickly ceases,

Lost in the blue black abyss of heaven,

So doth thy light and silver singing

Start and thrill

The silence round thy piney hill,

Unto the sober hour a jewel bringing —

A mystery — a strain of rhythm fleeing —

A vagrant echo winging

Back to the unuttered theme of being!