And the sad face of Nature, all dreary, forlorn,
His clear, mellow notes through the dripping woods thrill.
In the evening, when nature is seeking repose,
And his dear little mate has repaired to her nest,
And the last golden sunbeams are kissing the rose,
It is then that his song is the sweetest and best.
Oh, then man why repine, be downcast on your way.
As through the long years you are journeying on;
For the sadder the morning and gloomier the day,
The happier and sweeter is the wood thrushe’s song.