The Hermit Thrush 



George W. Schussler 



Thou hermit dweller by Arcadia's pool, 



Thou soul of evening and the silent glade — 

 Sweet singer of the solitude, — of cool 



And mossy aisles that make a mingled shade 

 Along the forest floor, — what fount of praise 



And bubbling ecstasy is welling o'er 

 Those rich and varied warblings through the wold ? 



What lingering strain of love and woodland lore 

 Art waking new amid thy fragrant bays? 



What dear delight inspires, or instinct old? 



It is the solemn hush of twilight's hour, 



And now like anthem on the quiet air, 

 Or distant bell that from some convent tower 



Calleth the sober nuns to evening prayer, 

 Thy voice is heard; darkling the shadows fall 



And from a deeper distance comes thy song, 

 And now 'tis gone, and now once more afar 



Its melodies the parting day prolong, 

 Till dusk and stillness fold each forest hall 



And naught is wakeful save the evening star. 



All the notes of the forest throng, 

 Flute, reed and string, are in his song; 

 Never a fear knows he, nor wrong, 

 Nor doubt of anything. 



Small room for care in that soft breast; 

 All weather that comes to him is bsst, 

 While he sees his mate closs on her nest, 

 And the woods are full of spring. 



— From "The Thrush" by E. R. Sill 

 233 



