At The Voice Of A Bird

Consurgent ad vocem volucris.

Call to me, thrush, When night grows dim, When dreams unform And death is far!

When hoar dews flush On dawn's rathe brim, Wake me to hear Thy wildwood charm,

As a lone rush Astir in the slim White stream where sheer Blue mornings are.

Stir the keen hush On twilight's rim When my own star Is white and clear.

Fly low to brush Mine eyelids grim, Where sleep and storm Will set their bar;

For God shall crush Spring balm for him, Stark on his bier Past fault or harm,

Who once, as flush Of day might skim The dusk, afar In sleep shall hear

Thy song's cool rush With joy rebrim The world, and calm The deep with cheer.

Then, Heartsease, hush! If sense grow dim, Desire shall steer Us home from far.