A Book on Birds 



The Hermit Thrush 



Sweet singer, in the high and holy place 

 Of this dim-lit cathedral of the hills; 



With reverent brow and unuplifted face, 

 I quaff the cup thy melody distills. 



What sparkling well of limpid music springs 



Within thy breast, to quench my thirst like this! 



What nameless chords are hid beneath thy wings. 

 That all my soul is quickened by thy bliss! 



Perchance the same mysterious desire 



Hath brought us both to this deep shrine as one; 

 For now it burns a single flame of fire, 



Dropped through the branches from the setting 

 sun! 



And as thou singest, lo, the voice is mine, 



Each note a thought ; each thought, a silent prayer, 



Of joy, of peace — of ecstasy divine, 



Poured forth upon the fragrant woodland air. 



And I, who stand aloof, am not alone, 



Here in these great cathedral aisles untrod; 



O, Hermit, thou has opened heaven, unknown. 

 And through thy song have I communed with God. 



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