Joy-Month "Here again, here, here, here, happy year!" O warble unchidden, unbidden! And all the winters are hidden. 1533 Of mist and sunshine mingled, moves the strain Strong As love, O Song, In flame or torrent sweep through Life along, O'er grief and wrong. John Banister Tabb [1845-1909] JOY-MONTH Oн, hark to the brown thrush! hear how he sings! And golden the buttercup blooms by the way, While the melody rained from yonder spray How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves! Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature! By the brimming soul of every creature!— Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy! more tongues!— Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree, To the sky, and to all earth's blooms and songs! They utter the heart in me. David Atwood Wasson [1823-1887] MY THRUSH ALL through the sultry hours of June, God's poet, hid in foliage green, Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! Nor from these confines wander out, Commits all day his murderous crimes: May I not dream God sends thee there, Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes "Blow Softly, Thrush" Closer to God art thou than I: His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly Ah, never may thy music die! Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes! 1535 Mortimer Collins [1827-1876] THE HERMIT THRUSH SWEET Singer, in the high and holy place Of this dim-lit cathedral of the hills; With reverent brow and unuplifted face, I quaff the cup thy melody distills! What sparkling well of limpid music springs Within thy breast, to quench my thirst like this! What nameless chords are hid beneath thy wings, That all my soul is lifted by thy bliss! Perchance the same mysterious desire Hath brought us both to this deep shrine as one; For now-it burns a single flame of fire, Dropped through the branches from the setting sun! And as thou singest, lo, the voice is mine, Each note, a thought; each thought, a silent prayer, Of joy, of peace-of ecstasy divine, Poured forth upon the fragrant woodland air! And I, who stand apart, am not alone, Here, in these great cathedral aisles untrod; O, Hermit, thou hast opened Heaven, unknown, "BLOW SOFTLY, THRUSH" BLOW softly, thrush, upon the hush From all the vocal crowd, Apart, remote, a spirit note And build the green-hid waterfall I hated for its beauty, and all The unloved vernal rapture and flush, Delicate thrush! Spring's at the prime, the world's in chime, And my love is listening nearly; O lightly blow the ancient woe, Flute of the wood, blow clearly! Blow, she is here, and the world all dear, Melting flute of the hush, Old sorrow estranged, enriched, sea-changed, Breathe it, veery thrush! Joseph Russell Taylor [1868 TO A WATERFOWL WHITHER, midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way? Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air,— Lone wandering, but not lost. The Wood-Dove's Note All day thy wings have fanned At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend, Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart He who, from zone to zone, 1537 Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878] THE WOOD-DOVE'S NOTE MEADOWS with yellow cowslips all aglow, "O where! where ! where!" Straight with old Omar in the almond grove With sad unwearied plaint, "O where! where! where !" New madrigals in each soft pulsing throat- O where! where ! where !" |