TIME to get up! Time to get up! says the Thrush, Shouting the golden hours of morning through. Every bird is merry in bower and bush: Love's in flower and a thousand things to do. Time to get up! Time to get up! he calls. Slug-a-bed! slug-abed! mocking and calling yet. O Thrush, be still! For a day has a yoke that galls, A grief, a weariness: let me sleep and forget. You'll be late! You'll be late! says the Thrush: too late for feast. Winter's over: rise and be joyful now. The wind in the South forgets that once it was East; There's snow on the thorn and rose on the apple-bough. O Thrush, be silent! Let me rest from my cares, From grief that irks, and age that comes and the night. You'll be late! says the Thrush. See the sun! You'll be late for prayers. We've sung our Prime and Matins and None's in sight. Share it!—share it!—share it! says the Thrush, Changing his note to suit unhappy me. When love shares the burden, what is it? Tush! Heavy for one is light for two, for three. Share it!—share it! calls again and flies. Comfort, counsel for a hapless ear. Sure, Minerva's fowl was not so wise! @3Time to get up!@1 O Thrush, I rise—I hear! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NO LONGER COULD I DOUBT HIM TRUE by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR CANADA by CHARLES GEORGE DOUGLAS ROBERTS A FARM PICTURE by WALT WHITMAN SONNET: TO L.T. IN FLORENCE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 7. MIDSUMMER by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM ON HEARING AN AEOLIAN HARP by PETER BAYLEY JR. |