The Thrush Sings

Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead.... How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead? Or though forgetting, sing—and she is dead? O hush, Untimely, truant Thrush! Singeth the Thrush, "I sing that she is dead!" Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead, Singeth the Thrush, "I sing her praise though dead." O hush, Untimely, grievous Thrush! Singeth the Thrush, "I sing your happy dead, I sing her who is living, and no more dead, I sing her joy—she is no longer dead." O hush, Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!