The Thrush

THE thrush sings high on the topmost bough, —
Low, louder, low again ; and now
He 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.
He has lost his last year’s love, I know, —
He, too, — but ’t is little he keeps of woe;
For a bird forgets in a year, and so
No wonder the thrush can sing.