lives of so many thousand people, not only of our own 

 State, but an inHueuLe that is truly world-wide 



Anna Botskord Comstock. 



[Abridged from article in Cornell Countryman of Noivmbcr igi2] 



THE SONG OF THE THRUSH 



When the beech trees are green in the woodlands, 



And the thorns are whitened with may, 

 And the meadow-sweet blows and the yellow gorse blooms 

 I sit on a wmd-waved spra\'. 

 And I sing through the livelong day 

 From the golden dawn till the sunset comes and the shadows of 

 gloaming grey. 



And I sing of the joy of the woodlands. 



And the fragrance of wild-wood flowers. 

 And the song of the trees and the hum of the bees 

 In the honeysuckle bowers, 

 And the rustle of showers 

 And the voice of the west wind calling as through glades and green 

 branches he scours. 



When the sunset glows over the woodlands 



More sweet rings my lyrical cry. 

 With the pain of my yearning to be 'mid the burning 

 And beautiful colours that lie 

 'Midst the gold of the sun-down sk\-. 

 Where over the purple and crimson and amber the rose-pink 

 cloud-curls fly. 



Sweet, sweet swells my voice thro' the woodlands, 



Repetitive, marvellous, rare: 

 And the song birds cease singing as my music goes ringing 

 And eddying echoing there, 

 Now wild and now debonair. 

 Now fill'd with a tumult of passion that throbs like a pulse in the 

 hush'd warm air! 



William Sharp 



From Songs and Poems 

 Used by permission of Duffield & Company 



