The New Zealand Nightingale.

The thrush each morning lifts his head
In joyous ecstasy,
And from his throat there spills a note,
A silken Rhapsody.

With peerless purity of sound
His song falls—passionless—
And floats, like bubbles, on a stream
Of turgid heaviness.

Sing on brown bird of merry heart
Sweet minstrel of the dawn.
With wondrous music gild the hour
That wakes the sleeping morn.

—Rhoda Hare.

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