 | Words by the Wayside |  |
26
Matins
As out of slumber my thoughts came winging,And blent their notes with the bird-notes ringing
Under the lattice beneath the eaves,
One sweet thought, as my heart believes,—
Was it a thought, or was it a thrush
That had roosted nigh to God all night?—
Sang so loudly for pure delight,
That the rest cried “Hush!
Let us to sleep and dream again,
If we too haply may catch the strain!”
So into silence back they crept,
Heads under downy wings, and slept;
Then it ceased, and the dawn was dumb,
And I must wait till the morrow come.
But what if the singer for some sweet sake
Forget to carol, or I to wake?
For in all my lifetime till to-day
I never knew what a bird could say—
How a thrush—or was it a thought?—could sing
Of God and Spring.
| Words by the Wayside | |