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Allen, Frederick James: The Wood Thrush
The Wood Thrush

When westward low descends the sun’s red car
A lingering woodland note my heart enthralls;
O hark! O list! It is the wood thrush calls
From out the forest dim; and sweet afar

The ripple glides to greet the evening star,
As when upon enchanted mountain walls
Soft wind-harps sound, or fairy music falls
In stilly hours beneath the moon’s pale bar.

O vesper singer in thy sylvan glades,
What gift is thine, how thrills the enraptured air
Beneath the burden of thy song! O, cease

Not while on field and forest deep the shades
Of night are mantling down; but singing there,
To all the hushed and listening earth give peace.

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