(THERE'S a thrush on the under bough
Fluting evermore and now:
"Keep—young!" but who knows how?)
Jar in arm, they bade him rove
Through the alder's long alcove,
Where the hid spring musically
Gushes to the ample valley.
Down the woodland corridor,
Odours deepened more and more;
Blossomed dogwood in the briars
Struck her faint delicious fires;
Miles of April passed between
Crevices of closing green,
And the moth, the violet-lover,
By the wellside saw him hover.
Ah, the slippery sylvan dark!
Never after shall he mark
(On his drownèd cheek down-sinking),
Noisy ploughman drinking, drinking.
Quit of serving is that wild
Absent and bewitchèd child,
Unto action, age, and danger
Thrice a thousand years a stranger.
Fathoms low, the naiads sing,
In a birthday welcoming;
Water-white their breasts, and o'er him,
Water-grey, their eyes adore him.
(There's a thrush on the under bough
Fluting evermore and now:
"Keep—young!" but who knows how?)