The Hermit Thrush 



By ERNEST HOWARD CROSBY 



Before the sun of June 



Had bathed his forehead in the morning mist, 



I rose and rambled barefoot on chill dews 



That drenched the moss between squat junipers. 



Above the vaulted aisle of yonder pines 



The morning star was vanishing from earth, 



And we gazed speechless, pines and moss and I, 



Longing to cry farewell. And then God sent 



A voice to speak for all our brotherhood; 



For lo, at last we heard His Hermit Thrush, 



The tremulous vox-humana stop o' the woods. 



Let loose his pipe, like some high priest of sound 



In a cathedral, — and we listened there 



In thankful stillness to our inmost yearning 



Transmuted into song. 



(159) 



