The thrush that sings so finely
These August evenings,
Repeating such divinely
Inconsequential things,
Has left an airy dwelling
In early spring, to say
He has a tale worth telling
This world of work-a-day.
Told so serenely, purely,
So lacking pain's alloy,
You'd think his office surely
Ambassador of joy.
You'd think his song in order
To make us understand
We tread the very border
Of an enchanted land.
And how, with earth's renewal,
That country far to find,
Where sun nor wind is cruel,
And all the gods are kind.
From one bleak stunted elm, he--
Hemmed in with brick and stone--
Is singing of a realm we
Have never, never known.
Careless of hoot and whistle,
The traffic's come and go,
The factory's harsh dismissal,
The milling crowds below:
The roar the peak-hour raises
To yet a louder key
Still, still that small voice praises
Spring-time in Arcady.
Alas for his elation,
Alas the darling theme,
By subway, bridge, and station
The heedless humans stream
As carelessly as ever,
And nobody believes
The tale the thrush tells over
These chilly August eves.
First published in The Sydney Morning Herald, 20 August 1938
