The Thrush's Song

MARGARET B. AYRES.

A wood-thrush sang to a child one day,
Sang from his hedge in the garden-way,
Atilt where blossoming branches sway.

Red grew the poppies 'neath the sun,
Kissed by the butterflies one by one,
That flutter on till the day is done.

The notes rang clear in the trembling leaves,
Through wild-rose bloom where a Dryad weaves
Her golden spell in soft mystic wreaths.

"Oh, little child, there is one Great Heart
Will keep thee still from all care apart;
For held in infinite Love thou art.

"O, tender life from the Life divine,
As buds unfold to a summer clime,
Grow thou each day in the warm earth-time."

Thus sang the thrush to a child one day,
Sang from his hedge in the garden-way,
Atilt where blossoming branches sway.

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