WHO sings so more than passing sweet Within his ample cage of green, Together mingling natural heat With what is serious and serene? It is my Lord the speckled Thrush, Compelling heart and soul to hear; And never has a bird for me So mellowed coppice, bush or tree, Since first I strayed to Warwickshire! 'Tis not a thrush alone that sings, But some one adding to the bird A spirit in exchange for wings To carry here his lovely word. Listen the human in the thrush Above the bird-soul rising clear, As if this county's Heart of Song Were beating now divinely strong In his recovered Warwickshire! There went a touch of Hamlet! There, In loops of alto, Beatrice ran Her lapwing course, as fragrant-fair As ever maid since time began! And hark! It wanted but the note Of her who pressed in fun and fear By woodland ways for love. The bough Is bending with immortals now, And gods go large in Warwickshire! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FONTENOY by THOMAS OSBORNE DAVIS THE BARON'S LAST BANQUET by ALBERT GORTON GREENE AT HOME by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI A RIDDLE by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE DEATH OF A DANDY by JOHN PEALE BISHOP AN ANCIENT PATH by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |