The Singing Bird in the Woods

O Thrush, upon the beechen bough,

Shake thy glad wings and sing;

All things around thy dwelling now

Bud freshly in the spring.

 

Through new oped leaves of brightest green

The flitting sunlights breaks;

The fern-leaves o'er the streeamlets lean,

The star primroses wake.

 

And over all the sunshine flows,

And over all they song,

Sole breaker of the wood's repose,

Floats as we pass along.

 

Thou hast no past, no future, bird!

Sing on in unchecked glee;

From me shall come no harsher word

To mar thy minstrelsy.

 

Sing clear and shrill! 'tis sweet to list

Thy song of jubilee,

And in this weary world to wist

That some rejoice like thee;

 

Some who can dwell in simple trust

'Mid this day's leaves and flowers;

Nor taint their beauty with the dust,

Of bye-gone days or hours.

May 30, 1863. Washington Statesman 2(24): 1.