Thrushes

"The throstle with his note so true, The wren with little quill."

"That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture!"

"When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, And rarely pipes the mounted thrush."

"Across the noisy street I hear him careless throw One warning utterance sweet; Then faint at first, and low, The full notes closer grow; Hark, what a torrent gush! They pour, they overflow— Sing on, sing on, O thrush!"

"O thrush, your song is passing sweet, But never a song that you have sung Is half so sweet as thrushes sang When my dear love and I were young."

"In the gloamin' o' the wood The throssil whusslit sweet."

"I said to the brown, brown thrush: "Hush—hush! Through the wood's full strains I hear Thy monotone deep and clear, Like a sound amid sounds most fine.""

"Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Meet the moon upon the lea; Are the emeralds of the spring On the angler's trysting-tree? Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, Are there buds on our willow-tree? Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?"

"Hush! With sudden gush As from a fountain sings in yonder bush The Hermit Thrush."

"At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years."

"And hark! how blithe the throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher."