THE WOOD THRUSH : A Sonnet. 



THE shy wood thrush, concealed amid the trees, 

 Pours forth his even-song unto his mate: 

 She, seated on the nest, alone in the late 



Spring day. With her bright look she, peering, sees 



His joy. His woodland strains swell on the breeze, 

 And trill, and plead, and not a tone abate, 

 In accents sweet; his liquid eyes dilate; 



The bubbling notes strike tinklingly like keys 

 Together, or, like drops of water, fall ; 



His spotted breast heaves, and sends from his throat 



Rare native music, lays to her devote, 

 In his clear, flute-like, warbling call : 



And from these depths, his green-leaved habitude, 



It ceases. Then the twilight solitude. 



