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GOLDEN-MOUTH
Out of the streets I went my way
One grey-ey’d January day.
Suddenly, as I stroll’d along,
A wayside throstle burst out in song.
Long, long months my weary mind
Had conn’d the griefs of humankind;
Care had had my heart to school,
And sear’d it with her iron rule.
But oh! what’s this—this strange unrest?
Is the heart turning in my breast?
Oh, mercy! is it joy or pain
Lets the tears rush into my eyes again?
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