Fill me with scent of upturned ground,
Soft perfume from thy bosom drawn.
The gifts I bring thou wilt not scorn,
Poor though they must be while I live,
For in my hour of death I give
My heart, that one rose may be born!
THREE CHILD-SONGS
I
THE THRUSH’S SONG
“Oh! bother,” sang the thrush,
“I’m in an awful rush,