ILLINOIS AUDUBON SOCIETY 25 



The Thrushes 



The robin flutes his old refrain, 



Singing through sunshine and through rain — 

 The first to rouse the chorus, he 



So cheers the waking world with glee. 



The veery's jingling music falls 



In circles — and the sound enthralls 



As through the darkening pines one strays 

 And dreams of dear, departed days. 



The wood thrush song is liquid gold, 



A perfect harmony supreme 

 Of love and loving manifold ; 



Making all sorrow but a dream. 



The darling of the poet's lay, 



The blue bird's note sounds far-away, 

 As if with heavenly color, clear 

 Angelic voices mingled near. 



But when the hermit sings — ah me ! 



His three-fold chord of ecstasy — 

 My spirit leaves my troubled breast 



And cradled, sinks to perfect rest. 



Mary Kavanagh. 



The Whitethroat 



The whitethroat when he comes in spring, 

 On northern lodge-pole seems to sing 



To Indian mother weaving fleet 



A swinging cradle for small feet, 



A lullaby, serenely sweet, 



In "Killaleet, ah Killaleet." 



But when in autumn's yellow haze, 



'Mid purpling grapes in sunlit days, 



His high clear note forever strays — 



(The wildest cry the woods within 



As if for long regretted sin — ) 



Sounds "Pity me Lord pity me." 



Mary Kavanagh. 



