Thrushes

The sweetest sound I ever heard

Was a thrush that sang to her baby bird

In the old fir woods that fringe the sea,

Where shadows creep from tree to tree.

Tangled the boughs those notes dropped through,

Falling like silver drops of dew

About me where I stood.

And sleepy as you or I might be,

That baby thrush sang haltingly;

Broken and sweet its small notes were

Faintly piping after her,

Like an echo spent with answering,

Or the ghost of a bird come back to sing

There in the old fir wood.