The Wood-Thrush

When lilies by the river fill with sun,

And banks with clematis are overrun;

When winds are weighed with fern-sweet from the hill,

And hawks wheel in the noontide hot and still;

When thistle-tops are silvered, every one,

And fly-lamps flicker ere the day is done, —

Nature bethinks her how to crown these things.

At twilight she decides: the wood-thrush sings.