The Hermit Thrush
BY
F· Schuyler Mathews
L·PRANG·&·Co:
Boston:
1
The Hermit Thrush
The sweet fresh air of the new springtime
Breathes o’er the woods where the blue hills climb
Aloft from a belt of spruce and pine
That hides their feet in a dark green line.
On the edge of the wood where the white birch trees
2
WHERE THE BLUE HILLS CLIMB
ALOFT FROM A BELT OF SPRUCE AND PINE
3
Nod and bend in the passing breeze,
A hermit lives who never is seen
Nearer the meadow’s rolling green
Than the pasture bars beside the hill,
Where the road is lonely, dark, and still,
And scarcely anyone passes by
But the boy and cows, and squirrels shy.
This hermit is brown, and small in size,
And hides away from curious eyes;
He wears no cowl and studies no book,
4
THE PASTURE BARS
BESIDE THE HILL
5
Nor sits in a cave or sheltered nook;
But up in the top of the tallest tree
At the edge of the wood, alone sits he,
And sings his song in a wild sweet way,
Of the distant world so blithe and gay;
How he retired from its youthful folly—
And here there’s a touch of melancholy
In cadence soft; and the song’s complete,