And the round, silver note of the thrush,
A concert, with sweet variations of love,
Seemed pouring from tree and from bush.
I walked there to-day; as an accent profane
That falls on the heart and the ear,
I heard the harsh echo of hammer and plane,
And the pant of a mill in the rear.
So I muffled my face with the veil that I wore—
Time, that moment of pain can’t appease;
Unless like the birds from the scene I can soar,