Poems (Sill)/The Thrush

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THE THRUSH.
THE thrush sings high on the topmost bough,—Low, louder, low again; and nowHe has changed his tree,—you know not how, For you saw no flitting wing.
All the notes of the forest-throng,Flute, reed, and string, are in his song;Never a fear knows he, nor wrong, Nor a doubt of anything.
Small room for care in that soft breast;All weather that comes is to him the best,While he sees his mate close on her nest, And the woods are full of spring.
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He has lost his last year's love, I know,—He, too,—but 'tis little he keeps of woe;For a bird forgets in a year, and so No wonder the thrush can sing.
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