Sure maybe ye've heard the storm-thrush Whistling bould in March, Before there's a primrose peepin' out, Or a wee red cone on the larch; Whistlin' the sun to come out o' the cloud, An' the wind to come over the sea, But for all he can whistle so clear an' loud, He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've seen the song-thrush After an April rain Slip from in-under the drippin' leaves, Wishful to sing again; An' low wi' love when he's near the nest, An' loud from the top o' the tree, But for all he can flutter the heart in your breast, He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've heard the cushadoo Callin' his mate in May, When one sweet thought is the whole of his life, An' he tells it the one sweet way. But my heart is sore at the cushadoo Filled with his own soft glee, Over an' over his' me an' you!' He's never the bird for me. Sure maybe ye've heard the red-breast Singin' his lone on a thorn, Mindin' himself o' the dear days lost, Brave wid his heart forlorn. The time is in dark November, An' no spring hopes has he: 'Remember,' he sings, 'remember!' Ay, thon's the wee bird for me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RECESSIONAL by RUDYARD KIPLING FOR A CHILD: 1. WALKING SONG by CHARLES WILLIAMS PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 56. AL-WALI by EDWIN ARNOLD ON A FOUNTAIN AND ITS ARCHITECT by PHILIP AYRES SONNET TO CHARLOTTE M-- by BERNARD BARTON |