While in her boughs a cheerful thrush
is calling to his mate.
Dear breath of mignonette and stocks!
I love you, know you all.
And, oh, the fragrant spices from the
lad's love by the gate!

Kind wind from the West Country, wet
wind, but scented so,
That straight from my dear garden
you seem but lately come,
Just tell me of the yellow broom, the
guelder rose's snow,
And of the tangled clematis where
myriad insects hum.

Oh, is there any heartsease left, or any
rosemary?
And in their own green solitudes, say,
do the lilies wait?
I knew it! Gentle wind, but once --
speak low and tenderly --
How fares it -- tell me truly -- with the
lad's love by the gate?





The Thrush