The wood thrush is singing from the depth of the glen,
His clear, bell-like music, so pleasing to me
In the fair month of May, when all nature looks gay;
They vie with each other from briar and tree.
In a deep shaded nook, where the woodbine twine,
And the dark gloomy forest conceals them from view;
By a clear, winding brooklet, o’er tangled with vines.
His dear mate is guarding her treasures of blue.
Though dark be the weather and gloomy the morn,
And all other birds in the forest are still,