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The Singing Thrush

per.00129.002

THE SINGING THRUSH.1

Wandering at morn, Emerging from the night, from the gloomy thoughts— 
  thee in my thoughts,
Yearning for thee, harmonious Union! thee, Singing 
  Bird divine!
Thee, seated coil'd in evil times, my country, with 
  craft and black dismay—with every meanness, 
  treason thrust upon thee;
—Wandering—this common marvel I beheld—the 
  parent thrush I watched, feeding its young,
(The singing thrush, whose tones of joy and faith 
  ecstatic,
Fail not to certify and cheer my soul.
There felt I, saw I, If worms, snakes, loathsome grubs, may to sweet 
  spiritual songs be turn'd,
If vermin so transposed, so used, so bless'd may be, Then may I trust in you, your States, my country; —Who knows but these may be the lessons fit for 
  you?
Who knows—perhaps the diet fit to-day for you? These, these, to-day for your preparing nest, O 
  Union! even from these,
From these your future song may rise, with joyous 
  trills,
Destin'd to fill the world.
WALT WHITMAN.

Notes

1. Reprinted as "Wandering at Morn" in Two Rivulets (1876). [back]

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