Bird lore - Project Puffin

The Hermit Thrush
By ERNEST HOWARD CROSBY
Before the sun of June
Had bathed his forehead in the morning mist,
I rose and rambled barefoot on chill dews
That drenched the moss between squat junipers.
Above the vaulted aisle of yonder pines
The morning star was vanishing from earth,
And we gazed speechless, pines and moss and I,
Longing to cry farewell. And then God sent
A voice to speak for all our brotherhood;
For lo, at last we heard His Hermit Thrush,
The tremulous vox-humana stop o' the woods.
Let loose his pipe, like some high priest of sound
In a cathedral,—and we listened there
In thankful stillness to our inmost yearning
Transmuted into song.
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