The Veery

THE MOONBEAMS over Arno’s vale in silver flood were pouring, 
When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love deploring. 
So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and eerie; 
I longed to hear a simpler strain,—the wood-notes of the veery. 
 
The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather; 
It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together; 
He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie; 
I only know one song more sweet,—the vespers of the veery. 
 
In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, 
I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure: 
The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, 
And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery. 
 
But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is singing; 
New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: 
And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary, 
I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery.