A thrush alit on a young-leaved spray, 
And, lightly clinging, 
It rocked in its singing 
As the rapturous notes rose loud and gay; 
And with liquid shakes, 
And trills and breaks, 
Rippled though blossoming bough of May. 

Like a ball of fluff, with a warm brown throat 
And throbbing bosom, 
'Mid the apple-blossom, 
The new-fledged nestling sat learning by rote 
To echo the song 
So tender and strong, 
As it feebly put in its frail little note. 

O blissfullest lesson amid the green grove! 
The low wind crispeth 
The leaves, where lispeth 
The shy little bird with its parent above; 
Two voices that mingle 
And make but a single 
Hymn of rejoicing in praise of their love.