III.—The Bird.

That was the thrush’s last good night,’ I said,1
And heard the soft descent of summer rain2
In the drooped garden leaves ; but, hush ! again3
The perfect iterance, unsolicited.4
Freelier have never woodland breezes shed5
Their viewless gifts ; yet seems the lavish’d strain6
To poise, self-charm’d as chaliced waters, fain7
Ever to circle in one dusk well-head.8
Full-throated singer !  art thou thus anew9
Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone10
The enriched silence drops for thy delight,11
More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew ?12
Now cease ; the last, faint, western streak is gone ;13
Stir not the blissful quiet of the night.14