A soft wave, from the earth’s warm breast,
Stirs in the pines and sinks to rest.
Far off a straying lambkin bleats,
Which pitying Echo soft repeats;
Anear the querulous, strident cries
That tell of insect lullabies.
Then long, grey shadows take command
And beckon with mysterious hand
Till falls a deep, expectant hush,
And then—the song of a single thrush.