13 APRIL 1895, Page 16

POETRY.

SERENADE.

THE thrush upon the apple-bough A-sway each tardy daybreak now, Hath a new song within his mouth, Taught by the breezes of the south.

Of loosened soil he softly sings, Green moss, and happy garden things,- Wake-robins on the sheltered side Of hedges where white violets hide.

His ear laid to the rugged bark, He hears the sap stir in the dark,. He feels a vital pulse imbue The branches wet with morning-dew..

And where the lowest twig descends Earthward to meet its grassy friends, Through bud and blade a tremor shoots,. And thrills among the apple-roots; And every breathless branch vibrates, Quick with a million blossom-fates,- And in the grey, expectant hush One hears the singing of the thrush.

MAY BYRON.