Page:Writings of Henry David Thoreau (1906) v5.djvu/446

404 What bird wilt thou employ

To bring me word of thee?

For it would give them joy—

'T would give them liberty—

To serve their former lord

With wing and minstrelsy.

A sadder strain mixed with their song,

They've slowlier built their nests;

Since thou art gone

Their lively labor rests.

Where is the finch, the thrush,

I used to hear?

Ah, they could well abide

The dying year.

Now they no more return,

I hear them not;

They have remained to mourn,

Or else forgot.

GREECE

When life contracts into a vulgar span,

And human nature tires to be a man,

I thank the gods for Greece,

That permanent realm of peace.

For as the rising moon far in the night

Checkers the shade with her forerunning light,