Across the noisy street I hear him careless throw One warning utterance sweet; Then faint at first, and low, The full notes closer grow; Hark, what a torrent gush! They pour, they overflow— Sing on, sing on, O thrush!
I said to the brown, brown thrush: "Hush—hush! Through the wood's full strains I hear Thy monotone deep and clear, Like a sound amid sounds most fine."
Sing, sweet thrushes, forth and sing! Meet the moon upon the lea; Are the emeralds of the spring On the angler's trysting-tree? Tell, sweet thrushes, tell to me, Are there buds on our willow-tree? Buds and birds on our trysting-tree?