The sun on the oriole's flashing breast
As he flits through the rosy apple-flowers,
A waning moon in the tender west,
And, high in the boughs, an empty nest
Beaten by winter's blasts and showers;—
Hush! his ravishing carol rings
From the topmost twig he makes his throne!
Rich as the hue of his glancing wings—
Mellow as flute-notes zephyr-blown
Down Phrygian dells when day is done!—
Oriole, singing aloft in the sun,
The waning moon and the empty nest,
Shadow and silence, at God's behest,
Follow shine and the brood in the bowers;
Follow, and who knows which is best?—
Sing on, by the rosy apple-flowers.