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Deep in my gathering garden A gallant thrush has built; And his quaverings on the stillness Like light made song are spilt.

They gleam, they glint, they sparkle, They glitter along the air, Like the song of a sunbeam netted In a tangle of red-gold hair.

And I long, as I laugh and listen, For the angel-hour that shall bring My part, pre-ordained and appointed, In the miracle of Spring.