Though leaves have fallen long since, <br />The wagtails flirt and flit, <br />Glad in the morning sun; <br />While, on the knotted quince, <br />The dewdrops, pearled on it, <br />Bead to a little run. . . . <br /> <br />Soft as a breathing air <br />There came a lovely sound <br />Out of the branches bare; <br />So rich it was, and round, <br />Sense stood, in listening bound, <br />Stilled to its sweetness there! <br />It was the thrush's note, <br /> <br />That seemed as though his heart <br />On some loved thing did dote; <br />As though he yearned apart, <br />Knowing some hidden smart, <br />Pain in the long sweet rote. <br /> <br />There, as the spider hung <br />Grey-breasted 'gainst the brown <br />Skin of the quince, he sung <br />A song that o'er the town, <br />Rose up as though to crown <br />The tree-tops whence it sprung. <br /> <br />And now, it seems to me, <br />That long full breath he drew, <br />Like perfume shed on air, <br />Still dwells within the tree, <br />Though long ago he flew, <br />And left it naked there.<br /><br />Dame Mary Gilmore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-first-thrush/
