THE HERMIT THRUSH Only through grace of Keats have I yet heard The nightingale in gardens by the sea; Only in Shelley's echo caught the note Of sunlight from the skylark's throat Poured over vineyard hills of Italy! But once with senses quickened into pain, I heard in summer dusk of fir and pine— Among Sierran heights made holy ground— The hermit thrush, a forest Israfel, Flood all the mountain round With music half of earth and half divine. I needed then no nightingale to tell His sorrow to the hidden ear of night— No lark to be the herald of the light. For in that song were summed all golden birds, All poets' golden words... All love and pain, all passion and all prayer Were gathered there On that Sierran height, In that song-shaken air! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BABY'S SHOES by WILLIAM COX BENNETT DURING WIND AND RAIN by THOMAS HARDY THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS OVER THE RIVER by NANCY WOODBURY PRIEST CABOOSE THOUGHTS by CARL SANDBURG THE CORDWRIGHT'S SONG by AUGUSTE DE BELLOY |