The Wood Thrush II (Hark, from the twilit wood beyond the road)

Hark, from the twilit wood beyond the road, Those leisurely enraptured cadences Borne on the dusk deliberate and pure, As if the player in long ages past Knowing all grief had learned to put it by, In a calm melody where no fear is. That is our wood-thrush who each year returns To be the heart's interpreter of Spring. Minstrel of solitude and poet's lore, His is the music of unspoken things. Hark how the minor tenderness of time, Old wistful longings and the storied years, Blend in untarnished gladness, melt and sing The unembittered rapture of the hour.