“ Joyous thrush,
It mingles with thy song, and beats soft time
To thy bubbling shrillness. Now it louder falls,
Pattering, like the far voice of leaping rills;
And now it breaks upon the shrinking clumps
With a crash of many sounds—the thrush is still.
There are sweet scents about us; the violet hides
On that green bank; the primrose sparkles there:
The earth is grateful to the teeming clouds,
And yields a sudden freshness to their kisses. ”