 | Shamrocks |  |
194
AFTER RAIN IN MAY.
The lark is silent, that sang all day
At the pearly gate of heaven;
The thrush sings out from a white-thorn spray,
To her clamorous brood at even;
The blackbird whistles liquid and long;
Till the horned moon grows in the apple-boughs,
The wet trees quiver, the singing river
Crooneth a cradle song.
At the pearly gate of heaven;
The thrush sings out from a white-thorn spray,
To her clamorous brood at even;
The blackbird whistles liquid and long;
Till the horned moon grows in the apple-boughs,
The wet trees quiver, the singing river
Crooneth a cradle song.
The hedges shine with the tiny star
That takes the sky-star's name,
And speedwell bluer than noon-skies are,
And buttercup's yellow flame;
The tall cow-parsley silvers the hedge,
The briar's aglow with the May-flower's snow;
One clear green star's in the gold afar,
A wet wind stirs in the sedge.
That takes the sky-star's name,
And speedwell bluer than noon-skies are,
And buttercup's yellow flame;
The tall cow-parsley silvers the hedge,
The briar's aglow with the May-flower's snow;
One clear green star's in the gold afar,
A wet wind stirs in the sedge.
195
O my birds, are ye drunken with pleasure
For Summer and her delights—
Her scented days with their golden leisure,
The hush of her moon-white nights?
Now Robin's singing who sang in the cold,
The linnet's throat hath a merry note,
The thrush pealeth after a rain of soft laughter,
The blackbird's a mouth of gold.
For Summer and her delights—
Her scented days with their golden leisure,
The hush of her moon-white nights?
Now Robin's singing who sang in the cold,
The linnet's throat hath a merry note,
The thrush pealeth after a rain of soft laughter,
The blackbird's a mouth of gold.
Oh, well for the birds, in their wet green leaves,
Forgetting the winter's snow,
The leafless boughs, when a wild wind grieves,
The grey frost's hunger and woe;
How some will die in the autumn rain,
The ruined nests, and the cold-pinched breasts;
How some will come with a prayer for a crumb,
Tapping the window-pane.
Forgetting the winter's snow,
The leafless boughs, when a wild wind grieves,
The grey frost's hunger and woe;
How some will die in the autumn rain,
The ruined nests, and the cold-pinched breasts;
How some will come with a prayer for a crumb,
Tapping the window-pane.
Teach us, Lord of the little bird's faith,
That maketh his heart secure,
And weights with no shadow of doubt or death
His anthem perfect and pure!
From matin to evensong ringeth his lay;
And after the storm the sunshine is warm;
And sweet is thanksgiving for love and for living,
To birds that sing in the May.
That maketh his heart secure,
And weights with no shadow of doubt or death
His anthem perfect and pure!
From matin to evensong ringeth his lay;
And after the storm the sunshine is warm;
And sweet is thanksgiving for love and for living,
To birds that sing in the May.
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