THE happy White-throat on
the swaying bough,
Rocked by the impulse of the gadding wind
That ushers in the showers of April,-now
Carols right joyously; and now reclined,
Crouching, she clings close to her moving seat,
To keep her hold;-and till the wind for rest
Pauses, she mutters inward melodies,
That seem her heart's rich thinkings to repeat.
But when the branch is still, her little breast
Swells out in rapture's gushing symphonies;
And then, against her brown wing softly prest,
The wind comes playing, an enraptured guest,
This way and that she swings-till gusts arise
More boisterous in their play, then off she flies.