The Spies
Young Robin from the field in the deep shadow runs,
Singing boy, pretty maid tossing the hay, he shuns,
Light of feet, stealthily, to the wood soon he creeps,
Laughing at strategy, there he runs, there he leaps.
But the thrush mid the green
Calls from her swaying tree,
‘There he goes, there he goes,
Did you see! did you see!’
May, in the deep of fern dreaming the summer day,
Hears the swift coming feet that would brook no delay,
Springs from her mossy couch, kneels by a streamlet there,
Bathes her sweet flushing face, binds back her rebel hair,
‘Tch,’ says the blackbird, ‘Tch.’
But the thrush on her tree
Sings ‘Tis but true love this,
It is not vanity.’
Hush, does she know who comes, hiding her joyful eyes,
Bidding her guess his name, laughing at her surprise,
Chiding her wayward word, jealous of her slow wit,
That could not find his name, and softly whisper it?
‘Sweet,’ said the chaffinch, ‘Sweet!’
And the thrush on the tree
Sings ‘Oh you happy maid,
It is he! it is he!’
Scant of breath May replies, 'List how the young bird sings
And in the blue I see flutter a brown lark’s wings.’
But Robin laughing says, ‘Busy in their own way
Birds never heed of us, hearken to me I pray.’
Loud the thrush on the tree
To the lark curious cries
‘See if their wedlock be
Noted in Paradise!’
Joyfully goes the lark soaring to Peter’s Gate,
Peeps at the record there of passing human fate.
Sings, till the Saint forgives, all the late news of earth,
Hearing of that far land where once he hath his birth.
Then from the sunset skies
Slips to the meadow’s shade,
Calling 'Tis true, ’tis true!
Marriage in Heaven made.’
