John Stuart Thomson (1869–1950)

A SPARROW on a flow’ry hedge

Melts all his soul in song,—the pledge

Of the supernal year;

And purple morning-glories lift

To the sun’s rays a cooling gift

Of nectar-wine for cheer.

Like fields of wind-tossed stars, the marguerites

Tremble in lone retreats.

The briar roses pink

Invite the bee to musk dew-drink;

And thrushes in the dim wood sing

Wild strains, with which the leafy coverts ring.

On olive lily-pads the gold

Of new-blown petals is unrolled,

And bobolincolns trail along

A tinkling chain of song.