The Thrush
I heard a thrush in a bright tree,
It sang with poignant ecstasy;
It sang of English fields I've seen
Oft in my dreams, dew-pearled and green;

Of primroses and daffodils
That light the fragrant vales and hills;
It sang of little dreaming towns
Tucked 'neath smooth, undulating downs;

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Of little cobbled streets that creep,
Around about them, red and steep;
It sang of houses small and thatched
With open doors and gates unlatched;

Of English hearths and fireside nooks,
With shelves of well-thumbed, well-loved books;
It sang of bells, insistent, sweet,
That bring good folk on quiet feet

To church each peaceful Sabbath day
To worship God in their own way;
It sang of snow that softly lights
The countryside on winter nights.

So sweet and strange to me it seemed,
Though long and often I have dreamed
Of England—through a song-bird's power
Really to roam one lovely hour
Through English lanes, o'er English hills
Lit up with golden daffodils.

Ivy Gibbs.