THE thrush sings high on the topmost bough, -- Low, louder, low again; and now He has changed his tree, -- you know not how, For you saw no flitting wing. All the notes of the forest-throng, Flute, reed, and string, are in his song; Never a fear knows he, nor wrong, Nor a doubt of anything. Small room for care in that soft breast; All weather that comes is to him the best, While he sees his mate close on her nest, And the woods are full of spring. He has lost his last year's love, I know, -- He, too, -- but 't is little he keeps of woe; For a bird forgets in a year, and so No wonder the thrush can sing. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LOVE'S APOTHEOSIS by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 83 by PHILIP SIDNEY IDYLLS OF THE KING: BALIN AND BALAN by ALFRED TENNYSON LINES FROM A PLUTOCRATIC POETASTER TO A DITCH-DIGGER by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS PAX BRITANNICA by ALFRED AUSTIN THE LUMINOUS HANDS OF GOD by ELEANOR WARFIELD KENLY BACON |