Song before Dark

Dark is the song of the wood thrush singing; It falls from the thicket over the rise In innocent and consummate pleading, Contemplative as the day that dies;

And in the downland over the meadow The echo is clear in the cooling air As the dusk unfurls its prodigious shadow Leaving lonely phantoms everywhere.

Nothing's disturbed. The telegraph wires Hum their efficient ambiguous tune As the hilltop firs with their ragged spires Are as yet unfavored by the moon.

Down from the upland the song returning Is woodwind piercing the wetted grain, And the hungry heart with desire burning Is half-relieved of its hovering pain!