A thrush keeps ringing and ringing— Ringing—now he is still, There’s a starry light in a window On the dark, dark hill.
The home that’s far away Comes stealing back to me, With the calling of the thrushes In the bonny birch-tree.
My eyes are full of tears For to-day and yesterday, For the yearning and the yearning, And the heart that’s far away.
Sorrow is come like a swallow to nest, Winging him up from the wind and the foam; Mine is the heart that he loves the best, He dreams of it when he dreams of home.
Strange! in the daylight off he flies, Swift to the south away to the sea; But when in the west the ruby dies, With the growing stars he comes back to me.
With the salt, cool wind in his wing, And the rush of tears that tingle and start, With a throb at the throat so he cannot sing, He nestles him into my lonely heart.
And he tells me of something I cannot name, Something the sea with the sea-wind sings, That somehow he and love are the same, That they float and fly with the same swift wings.
I cherish and cherish my timid guest, For oh, he has grown so dear to me That my heart would break if he left his nest, And dwelt in the strange land down by the sea.
’Tis autumn and down in the fields The buckwheat is browning still: Gather yourself in your cloak, The winter is over the hill.
There’s a cloud of black in the north, The aurora is smouldering behind, There are stars in the parting clouds, And a touch of frost in the wind.
Down in the icy dew The crickets are cheering shrill: “There is time for another song, Though winter is over the hill.”
Out of the great black cloud The aurora leaps and flies, Pushing its phosphor spikes In the deeps of the violet skies.
The moon is wrapped in a film, She looks wan and chill: Gather yourself in your cloak, The winter is over the hill.
Sing me a song of the early spring, Of the yellow light where the clear air cools, Of the lithe willows bourgeoning In the amber pools.
Sing me a song of the spangled dells, Where hepaticas tremble in starry groups, Of the adder-tongue swinging its golden bells As the light wind swoops.
Sing me a song of the shallow lakes, Of the hollow fall of the nimble rill, Of the trolling rapture the robin wakes On the windy hill.