Classic Poem

Bird of the brown wing and the dotted breast,
He dwells in deep woods, cool and dark and green;
In dewy, dim retreats he rears his nest,
By all save barefoot truants left unseen.

In Spring and Summer, at the dusk and dawn,
He floods the forest with his liquid trill;
At burning noon, in solitude withdrawn,
The hours doze on while all his songs are still.

Like rival troubadours, from every spray,
To all his notes his brethren make reply;
They speed the splendid sunrise on his way,
And chant a requiem when the light must die.

When morning, like a tulip flecked with fire,
In scarlet and in orange breaks in bloom,
Bird answers bird, and in one heavenly choir
They hail him from their forest-temple's gloom:

" O day of joy, haste, haste thy nimble feet!
All earth is happy, like a sweet love-story.
Come on, come on, where Youth and Pleasure meet,
To crown thee as thou risest in thy glory! "

When sunset lingers over Western hills
In ashen purple, like an exiled king,
Bird answers bird in melancholy trills, —
Ah me, that song the wild wood-thrushes sing!

" O perfect day, how soon thy joys shall end!
Thou wilt return, O never, never, never;
Far, O how far, thy weary feet must wend;
O day of joy, farewell, farewell, forever! "