THE WOOD-THRUSH AT SUNSET.
Lover of solitude, Poet and priest of nature's mysteries,If but a step intrude, Thy oracle is mute, thy music dies.
Oft have I lightly wooed Sweet Poesy to give me pause of pain,Oft in her singing mood Sought to surprise her haunt, and sought in vain.
And thou art shy as she, But mortal, or I had not found thy shrine,To listen breathlessly If I may make thy hoarded secret mine.
Thy tender mottled breast, Dappled the color of our primal sod,Now quick and song-possessed, Doth seem to hold the very joy of God,--
Joy hid from mortal quest Of bosky loves on silver-mooned eves,And the high-hearted best That swells thy throat with joy among the leaves.
Like the Muezzin's call From some high minaret when day is done,Among the beeches tall Thy voice proclaims, "There is no God but one."
And but one Beauty, too, Of whose sweet synthesis we ever fail:She flies if we pursue, Like thy swift wing down some dim intervale.
For thou art lightly gone; Gone is the flute-like note, the yearning strain,And all the air forlorn Is breathless till it hear thy voice again.
But thou wilt not return; Thou hast the secret of thy joy to keep,And other hearts must learn Thy tuneful message, ere the world may sleep,--
Sleep lulled by many a dream Of sylvan sounds that woo the ear in vain,While still thy numbers seem To voice the pain of bliss, the bliss of pain.
MARY C. PECKHAM.