CLXXVII The Thrush’s Nest
Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy—and oft, an unintruding guest, 5
I watched her secret toils from day to day;
How true she warped the moss to form her nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay.
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers, 10
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue:
And there I witnessed in the summer hours
A brood of nature’s minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.
John Clare.