Poems (Proctor)/The Oriole
THE ORIOLE.
The sun on the oriole's flashing breast As he flits through the rosy apple-flowers,A waning moon in the tender west,And, high in the boughs, an empty nest Beaten by winter's blasts and showers;—Hush! his ravishing carol rings From the topmost twig he makes his throne!Rich as the hue of his glancing wings— Mellow as flute-notes zephyr-blownDown Phrygian dells when day is done!—Oriole, singing aloft in the sun,The waning moon and the empty nest,Shadow and silence, at God's behest, Follow shine and the brood in the bowers;Follow, and who knows which is best?— Sing on, by the rosy apple-flowers.