The Hermit Thrush 



Here, on the river, a shining reach, 

 My love'd canoe and the sunset glow; 

 Gray rocks inverted in the tide, 

 Two silver birches that lean below. 



Sudden, as twilight gathers round. 

 And the ripples stir as I drift along, 

 Close to the bank, where the branches bend, 

 The Hermit Thrush bursts into song. 



Joyous and clear on the quiet air 

 Peals forth that wonderful silver strain, 

 Like the sunset bells from the ivied tower 

 Of some gray convent in far-off Spain. 



In the streets I left an hour ago, 

 News of battle across the foam — 

 Strife and carnage in lands afar — 

 Grief and mourning with us at home; 



War's red hand over land and sea, 

 Ruin that smites the field and hearth; 

 Thunder of guns on the Northern main, — 

 Tramp of armies that fill the earth. 



Yet here on the river, a shining reach, 



Golden ripples that stir and cease. 



And clear and sweet through the gathering gloom 



The silver voice that sings of Peace! 



— Evelyn Smith. 



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