P OISED on the summit of the deodar 
A song-thrush sings, this mild mid-winter day; 
Sings of the Spring, although the Spring is far 
And far away. 
I shall not see the radiant white-winged throng 
That wanders where the Heavenly gardens are, 
Nor hear the floating echoes of their song 
From star to star. 
Yet, though immortal melodies I miss, 
Here dwells my heart, nor seeks to soar above 
The music of the kindly Earth—and this— 
The voice I love. 
Infinite solace falls with every note, 
And dead dreams flower again the while he sings, 
My Angel with the throbbing speckled throat 
And dim brown wings. 
B 
