All through the sultry hours of June,
From morning blithe to golden noon,
— — And till the star of evening climbs
The gray-blue East, a world too soon,
— — There sings a Thrush amid the limes.

God's poet, hid in foliage green,
Sings endless songs, himself unseen;
— — Right seldom come his silent times.
Linger, ye summer hours serene!
— — Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes!

Nor from these confines wander out,
Where the old gun, bucolic lout,
— — Commits all day his murderous crimes:
Though cherries ripe are sweet, no doubt,
— — Sweeter thy song amid the limes.

May I not dream God sends thee there,
Thou mellow angel of the air,
— — Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes
With music's soul, all praise and prayer?
— — Is that thy lesson in the limes?

Closer to God art thou than I:
His minstrel thou, whose brown wings fly
— — Through silent ether's summer climes.
Ah, never may thy music die!
— — Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the limes!