LINES TO A HERMIT THRUSH
On being awakened by it one early mid-summer morning
Oh list! A strain of music thrills the air!
A flute-like cadence from the deep, green wood,
That has caused the gates of slumber to give way
And shudder all apart in golden mist.—
The morn is breaking o'er a slumbering world;
An odorous coolness brushes o'er my cheek.—
Fully awake, I scarcely dare to stir
Lest I should fright this wonder—minstrel coy:
Lest I, remorsefully, should hear the whir
Of passing wings, and mourn a vanished joy.
How still the morn! How full of peace! A hush
Enwraps all things, through which this music falls
Like precious jewels flung from a monarch's throne!
He's at his morning prayers; his praises flush
The roseate clouds, which gem the east, and calls
The rising sun from out the clouds alone,—
Alone for the twinkling stars have vanished all.—
What's hidden in thy song that thrills me so?
That fills my soul with longings strange withal;
That makes me think of mountains crowned with snow,
Of places vague, half mystical and sweet?
A flute-like cadence from the deep, green wood,
That has caused the gates of slumber to give way
And shudder all apart in golden mist.—
The morn is breaking o'er a slumbering world;
An odorous coolness brushes o'er my cheek.—
Fully awake, I scarcely dare to stir
Lest I should fright this wonder—minstrel coy:
Lest I, remorsefully, should hear the whir
Of passing wings, and mourn a vanished joy.
How still the morn! How full of peace! A hush
Enwraps all things, through which this music falls
Like precious jewels flung from a monarch's throne!
He's at his morning prayers; his praises flush
The roseate clouds, which gem the east, and calls
The rising sun from out the clouds alone,—
Alone for the twinkling stars have vanished all.—
What's hidden in thy song that thrills me so?
That fills my soul with longings strange withal;
That makes me think of mountains crowned with snow,
Of places vague, half mystical and sweet?
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