When lilies by the river fill with sun,
And banks with clematis are overrun;
When winds are weighed with fern-sweet from the hill,
And hawks wheel in the noontide hot and still;
When thistle-tops are silvered, every one,
And fly-lamps flicker ere the day is done, —
Nature bethinks her how to crown these things.
At twilight she decides: the wood-thrush sings.