TO THE WOOD THRUSH

Where the deep shadows of the darkest wood
Sleep in the silence of noonday solitude,
There from the depths, where other tongues are mute,
Floats the liquid passion of a golden flute:

Oh spirit-voice of the woodland,
Oh mellow crescendo trill,
Oh shy, sweet, unseen singer,
My heart is answering still.

Santee Mission, July 24. 1904.



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