When June's dark foliage clothes the forest boughs
Far in the shady depths the hermit thrush
Pipes his sweet lay, that through the woodland aisles
Rings with Seraphic melody. No song
In all our range of wildwood charms like his.
Shyest of birds, hermit indeed is he;
His slender form, glancing from spray to spray
Even by sharpest eye is seldom seen.
He shuns all common haunts, and seeks afar,
The loneliest spot amid the thickest shade:
And flies from the intrusive step of man,
However stealthy his approach may be.
Sweetest, far sweetest, is his voice to me,
At the soft hour of twilight, when the world
Has hushed her din of voices, and her sons
Are gathering to their slumbers from their toil.
I sit whole hours upon a moss-grown stone,
In some sequestered spot, and hear his lay,
Unmindful of the things that near me pass,
Till all at once, as the dim shades of night
Fall thicker on the lessening landscape round,
He ceases, and my reverie is broke.
One summer eve, at twilight's quiet hour,
After a sultry day spent at my books,
I slipped forth from my study, to enjoy
The cool of evening. Leaning on my arm
Was one I loved; a girl of gentle mould:
She had sweet eyes, and lips the haunt of smiles,
And long dark locks, that hung in native curls
Around her snowy bosom. The light wind
Tossed them aside, to kiss her lily neck,
Gently, as he were conscious what he touched.
Her step was light, light as the breeze that fanned
Her blushing cheek; gay was her heart, for youth
And innocence are ever gay; her form
Was stately as an angel's, and her brow
White as the mountain snow; her voice was sweet,
Sweet as the chiding of the brook that plays
Along its pebbly channel. Ruddy clouds
Were gathered east and south, high piled and seemed
Like rubby temples in a sapphire sky.
The west was bright with daylight still: no moon,
No stars were seen, save the bright star of love,
That sailed alone in heaven. 'Twas in this walk
We heard the hermit thrush in a lone wood
Near to the wayside, and we sat us down
Upon a mossy bank, to list awhile
To that sweet song. Peaceful before us lay
Woodlands, and orchards white with vernal bloom,
And flowering shrubs encircling happy homes,
And broad green meads with wild flowers sprinkled o'er:
The scent of these came on the gentle wind;
Sweet as the spicy breath of Araby.
The smoke above the clustering roofs curled blue
On the still air; the shout of running streams
Came from a leafy thicket by our side;
And that lone woodbird in the wood above,
Singing his evening hymn, perfected all.
The hour, the season, sounds, and scenery,
Mingling like these, and sweetly pleasing all,
Made the full heart o'erflow. That maiden wept—
Even at the sweetness of that song she wept.
How sweet the tears shed by such eyes for joy!
Far in the shady depths the hermit thrush
Pipes his sweet lay, that through the woodland aisles
Rings with Seraphic melody. No song
In all our range of wildwood charms like his.
Shyest of birds, hermit indeed is he;
His slender form, glancing from spray to spray
Even by sharpest eye is seldom seen.
He shuns all common haunts, and seeks afar,
The loneliest spot amid the thickest shade:
And flies from the intrusive step of man,
However stealthy his approach may be.
Sweetest, far sweetest, is his voice to me,
At the soft hour of twilight, when the world
Has hushed her din of voices, and her sons
Are gathering to their slumbers from their toil.
I sit whole hours upon a moss-grown stone,
In some sequestered spot, and hear his lay,
Unmindful of the things that near me pass,
Till all at once, as the dim shades of night
Fall thicker on the lessening landscape round,
He ceases, and my reverie is broke.
One summer eve, at twilight's quiet hour,
After a sultry day spent at my books,
I slipped forth from my study, to enjoy
The cool of evening. Leaning on my arm
Was one I loved; a girl of gentle mould:
She had sweet eyes, and lips the haunt of smiles,
And long dark locks, that hung in native curls
Around her snowy bosom. The light wind
Tossed them aside, to kiss her lily neck,
Gently, as he were conscious what he touched.
Her step was light, light as the breeze that fanned
Her blushing cheek; gay was her heart, for youth
And innocence are ever gay; her form
Was stately as an angel's, and her brow
White as the mountain snow; her voice was sweet,
Sweet as the chiding of the brook that plays
Along its pebbly channel. Ruddy clouds
Were gathered east and south, high piled and seemed
Like rubby temples in a sapphire sky.
The west was bright with daylight still: no moon,
No stars were seen, save the bright star of love,
That sailed alone in heaven. 'Twas in this walk
We heard the hermit thrush in a lone wood
Near to the wayside, and we sat us down
Upon a mossy bank, to list awhile
To that sweet song. Peaceful before us lay
Woodlands, and orchards white with vernal bloom,
And flowering shrubs encircling happy homes,
And broad green meads with wild flowers sprinkled o'er:
The scent of these came on the gentle wind;
Sweet as the spicy breath of Araby.
The smoke above the clustering roofs curled blue
On the still air; the shout of running streams
Came from a leafy thicket by our side;
And that lone woodbird in the wood above,
Singing his evening hymn, perfected all.
The hour, the season, sounds, and scenery,
Mingling like these, and sweetly pleasing all,
Made the full heart o'erflow. That maiden wept—
Even at the sweetness of that song she wept.
How sweet the tears shed by such eyes for joy!