84 JOHN BURROUGHS 



robin in a holiday suit. His song is a long, tapering note 

 or whistle, at times with a peculiar tolling effect. 



TO THE OREGON ROBIN IN ALASKA. 



Varied thrush ! O Robin strange ! 

 Behold my mute surprise. 



Thy form and flight I long have known, 

 But not this new disguise. 



1 do not know thy slaty coat, 



Nor vest with darker zone ; 

 I'm puzzled by thy recluse ways 

 And song in monotone. 



I left thee 'mid my orchard's bloom, 



When May had crowned the year ; 

 Thy nest was on the apple bough, 



Where rose thy carol clear. 



Thou lurest now through fragrant shades, 



Where hoary spruces grow ; 

 Where floor of moss infolds the foot, 



Like depths of fallen snow. 



Loquacious ravens clack and croak 



Nor hold me in my quest ; 

 The purple grosbeaks perch and sing 



Upon the cedar's crest. 



But thou art doomed to shun the day, 



A captive of the shade ; 

 I only catch thy stealthy flight 



Athwart the forest glade. 



Thy voice is like a hermit's reed 



That solitude beguiles ; 

 Again 'tis like a silver bell 



Adrift in forest aisles. 



Throw off, throw off this masquerade 



And don thy ruddy vest, 

 And let me find thee ? as of old, 



Beside thy orchard nest. 



