THE THRUSH
The creamy dogwood branches,
The rosy redbud trees,
The drifts of sweet wild-plum bloom
O’erhung by honey bees,
The gleaming buckeye blossoms
The south wind blew apart,
Oh, all the woods awaking,
They overfilled my heart!
Then clear, from out a thicket,
There rang that golden note
That flutes from none but only
The tawny thrush’s throat;
So charged with all sweet secrets
The April has to tell,
I bowed my head and harkened,
Enchanted by its spell.
Till presently that magic
Heart-melting melody
Drew all my soul to meet it
In sudden ecstasy.
My spirit found its pinions
In blessed bird-like birth,
And knew the joyous passion
That thrilled through all the earth.
The while the thrush was singing,
I heard the violets stir,
And through the dreamy woodlands
The breaking buds confer;
I half divined the glories
Of all the springs to be,
—When, O, the song was silent!
The thrush had flown, ah me!