Poems (Ripley)/Lines to a Hermit Thrush
LINES TO A HERMIT THRUSH
On being awakened by it one early mid-summer morning
Oh list! A strain of music thrills the air!
A flute-like cadence from the deep, green wood,
That has caused the gates of slumber to give way
And shudder all apart in golden mist.—
The morn is breaking o'er a slumbering world;
An odorous coolness brushes o'er my cheek.—
Fully awake, I scarcely dare to stir
Lest I should fright this wonder—minstrel coy:
Lest I, remorsefully, should hear the whir
Of passing wings, and mourn a vanished joy.
How still the morn! How full of peace! A hush
Enwraps all things, through which this music falls
Like precious jewels flung from a monarch's throne!
He's at his morning prayers; his praises flush
The roseate clouds, which gem the east, and calls
The rising sun from out the clouds alone,—
Alone for the twinkling stars have vanished all.—
What's hidden in thy song that thrills me so?
That fills my soul with longings strange withal;
That makes me think of mountains crowned with snow,
Of places vague, half mystical and sweet?
A flute-like cadence from the deep, green wood,
That has caused the gates of slumber to give way
And shudder all apart in golden mist.—
The morn is breaking o'er a slumbering world;
An odorous coolness brushes o'er my cheek.—
Fully awake, I scarcely dare to stir
Lest I should fright this wonder—minstrel coy:
Lest I, remorsefully, should hear the whir
Of passing wings, and mourn a vanished joy.
How still the morn! How full of peace! A hush
Enwraps all things, through which this music falls
Like precious jewels flung from a monarch's throne!
He's at his morning prayers; his praises flush
The roseate clouds, which gem the east, and calls
The rising sun from out the clouds alone,—
Alone for the twinkling stars have vanished all.—
What's hidden in thy song that thrills me so?
That fills my soul with longings strange withal;
That makes me think of mountains crowned with snow,
Of places vague, half mystical and sweet?
Yet when full day declares itself, 'tis then
I search for thee in vain.—Noises afright,—
And away thou goest far beyond our ken:
Methinks, some distant woodland to delight
And charm into sweet echoes with thy song.
But when the sunset's after-glow has dyed
The sky in saffron tints and rose and gold,
And in the twilight sleeps a cooling breeze,
He's back again to grace the evening hour.—
He sits atilt within a tree and sings:
Into the gloaming steals his minstrel lay—
His evening hymn to God.—And when at last
His benediction falls so soft, I feel
A strange regret, that makes my eyes to swim
In tears . . . . . . . . . .
I search for thee in vain.—Noises afright,—
And away thou goest far beyond our ken:
Methinks, some distant woodland to delight
And charm into sweet echoes with thy song.
But when the sunset's after-glow has dyed
The sky in saffron tints and rose and gold,
And in the twilight sleeps a cooling breeze,
He's back again to grace the evening hour.—
He sits atilt within a tree and sings:
Into the gloaming steals his minstrel lay—
His evening hymn to God.—And when at last
His benediction falls so soft, I feel
A strange regret, that makes my eyes to swim
In tears . . . . . . . . . .