The Thrush 



By Mary Burt Messer 



The briers and leaves and the underbrush 



Are in league with the Thrush. 



They are full of subtle and quick suspicion ; 



And when I am trying to find admission 



Into the thicket, they reach to stay me, 



And all the vines and the thorns delay me ; 



And when I am creeping along, along. 



Softly, lest I should break the song. 



The vines will flutter 



With words of fear, 



And the leaves will utter, 



"Anear — anear !" 



And the Thrush will stop. 



And suddenly drop 



Into the dusk of the underbrush. 



Then I will listen, and in the hush 



The ear perceives 



A step in the leaves ; 



And I look below 



In the shady room. 



And his brown's aglow 



In the leafy gloom ; 



And I catch his eye. 



So warily shy, 



And then — we are almost friends — and then 



There are the chattering leaves again, 



Foolish, timorous leaves that cry, 



"Have a care for the folk that pry!" 



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