The Hermit Thrush
by Arvia Mackaye, 9 years old
While walking through a lonely wood
I heard a lovely voice:
A voice so fresh and true and good
It made my heart rejoice.
It sounded like a Sunday bell,
Rung softly in a town,
Or like a stream, that in a dell
Forever trickles down.
It seemed to me a voice of love,
That always had loved me,
So softly it rang out above -
So wild and wanderingly.
O Voice, were you a golden dove,
Or just a plain gray bird?
O Voice, you are my wandering love,
Lost, yet forever heard.