The White-Throated Sparrow

Would you feel the witching spellOf the whitethroat, listen!There are secrets he can tellOf the marsh, and of the dellWhere the dewdrops glisten.

Poet of the brooding pineAnd the feathery larches,Dawn-lit summits seem to shine,Lucent in each throbbing line,Under azure arches.

All his soul a floating song,—Sweet, too sweet for sadness,—At his bidding, hither throngMemories that make us longWith a plaintive gladness.

Ah, were all the woodland bare,Should those notes but quiver,Straight I 'd see it budding fair!—And the lilies would be there,Floating on the river!