THE VEERY, 



Just as the sun is sinking 



Over the western hill, 

 I wait for a tone that seems all my own, 



When the hum of the day is still. 

 O, exquisite voice of the woodland! 



My heart throbs with bliss and with pain 

 When your sweet notes I hear from the treetops anear, 

 Echoing again and again. 



Hark to the song of the Veery 



Here on the edge of the town, 

 "List to me, list to me, dearie, dearie," 

 Just as the sun goes down. 



I love well the song of the Thrasher, 



Delivered in rollicking style; 

 I wonder what mirth to his solo gave birth, 



'Twould make even an anchorite smile; 

 And sweetly the voice of the Wood Thrush 



Is borne to the listening ear, 

 O! tenderly, faintly, like joy that is saintly. 

 Float over the liquid notes clear. 

 But sweeter the song of the Veery, 



Enclosing my sense like a ring, 

 "Here are we. here are we, dearie, dearie, 

 So might a bird spirit sing. 



Now die the sweet sounds of the dingle, 



All nature is pensive and still. 

 In the blue deeps, see, a single star peeps, 



There's the plaint of a sad Whip-poor-will; 

 The good nights of the forest are ended. 



And the world seems a vast solitude. 

 But no, for my Veery sings "dearie, dearie," 

 From the edge of the darkening wood. 

 And like tender harp-tones anear me. 



Or echoes of heavenly things; 

 "List to me, list to me, Veery, Veery," 

 Soft through the dying day rings. 



