He dwells where pine and hemlock grow, <br />A merry minstrel seldom seen; <br />The voice of Joy is his I know— <br />Shy poet of the Evergreen! <br /> <br />In dawn's first holy hush I hear <br />His one ecstatic, thrilling strain, <br />So sweet and strong, so crystal clear <br />'Twould tingle e'en the soul of Pain. <br /> <br />At close of day when Twilight dreams <br />He shakes the air beneath his tree <br />With such exquisite song it seems <br />That Passion breathes through Melody.<br /><br />Herbert Bashford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-russet-backed-thrush/
