Till morn is sultan of her parted lips.
We have not space for what follows in celebration of the birds, though we cannot resist the temptation to extract four intoxicating couplets:
The thrush, poor wanderer, drooping meekly down,
Clad in his remnant of autumnal brown;
The oriole, drifting like a flake of fire
Rent by the whirlwind from a blazing spire.
The robin, jerking his spasmodic throat,
Repeats, staccato, his peremptory note;
The crack-brained bobolink courts his crazy mate,
Poised on a bulrush tipsy with his weight.