Singeth the Thrush, forgetting she is dead....
How could you, Thrush, forget that she is dead?
Or though forgetting, sing — and she is dead?
O hush,
Untimely, truant Thrush!
Singeth the Thrush, “I sing that she is dead!”
Thou thoughtless Thrush, she loved you who is dead,
Singeth the Thrush, “I sing her praise though dead.”
O hush,
Untimely, grievous Thrush!
Singeth the Thrush, “I sing your happy dead,
I sing her who is living, and no more dead,
I sing her joy — she is no longer dead.”
O hush,
Enough, thou heavenly Thrush!