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11
THE THRUSH AND THE MAN.
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-a-bed! mocking and calling yet.
O thrush, be still! For day has a yoke that galls,
A grief, a weariness: let me sleep and forget.
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-a-bed! mocking and calling yet.
O thrush, be still! For 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 applebough.
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!
Time to get up! O thrush, I rise—I hear!
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 applebough.
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.
12
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!
Time to get up! O thrush, I rise—I hear!
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