The Thrush

THE briers and leaves and the underbrush
Are in league with the Thrush.
They are full of subtle and quick suspicion;
And when I am trying to find admission
Into the thicket, they reach to stay me,
And all the vines and the thorns delay me ;
And when I am creeping along, along,
Softly, lest I should break the song,
The vines will flutter
With words of fear,
And the leaves will utter,
“ An ear — anear ! ”
And the Thrush will stop,
And suddenly drop
Into the dusk of the underbrush.
Then I will listen, and in the hush
The ear perceives
A step in the leaves ;
And I look below
In the shady room,
And his brown’s aglow
In the leafy gloom;
And I catch his eye,
So warily shy,
And then — we are almost friends — and then
There are the chattering leaves again,
Foolish, timorous leaves that cry,
“ Have a care for the folk that pry ! ”