Joy-Month

Oh, hark to the brown thrush! hear how he sings! How he pours the dear pain of his gladness! What a gush! and from out what golden springs! What a rage of how sweet madness! And golden the buttercup blooms by the way, A song of the joyous ground; While the melody rained from yonder spray Is a blossom in fields of sound. How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves! How whispers each blade, "I am blest!" Rosy Heaven his lips to flowered earth gives, With the costliest bliss of his breast. Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature! By cups of field and of sky, By the brimming soul of every creature! - Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I. Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy! more tongues! - Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree, To the sky, and to all earth's blooms and songs! They utter the heart in me.