IN THE WOOD
I WOKE in suffering, and sadly heard,
Hard by my tent, repeated cries of pain,
That to the wilderness, in wildest strain,
Proclaimed the trouble of a mother bird
Robbed of her young; and I, too deeply stirred,
Thought as above me fell the ceaseless rain,
Wherefore should one who slumbers wake again,
Since anguish is the universal word?
Then suddenly aloft the wood there rose
The holy anthem of the hermit thrush,
From depths of happiness toward Heaven swelling;
And o'er the forest came an awed repose,
And griefs that chid the stormy night grew hush,
List'ning that wondrous ecstasy upwelling!