THE PRELUDE
Wandering in the quiet of the bird sanctuary, a little girl hears the voice of a hermit thrush, and meditates this song:
THE SONG
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 be 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.
Passing on deeper into the wood, the little girl thinks dreamily of all wild birds and the wrongs done to them by their human brothers and sisters.
Out of her reverie grows the Masque which follows.
THE MASQUE
