TO THE OREGON ROBIN by JOHN BURROUGHS

O varied thrush! O robin strange!
Behold my mute surprise.
Thy form and flight I long have known,
But not this new disguise.

I do not know thy slaty coat,
Thy 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.

I follow fast, or pause alert,
To spy out thy retreat;
Or see thee perched on tree or shrub,
Where field and forest meet.

Thy voice is like a hermit's reed
That solitude beguiles;
Again 'tis is like a silver bell
Atune 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.

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