We get a lot of birds in our garden; we live near the countryside, and we live near the sea, so we get a real selection of town birds, country birds and sea-birds. Sitting by my window here I can see a couple of jackdaws perched on the chimney of Mr and Mrs Ahmed’s house, I can see a seagull wheeling around, probably a common gull, some starlings have shot past, I can hear some sparrows chattering in the privet hedge of Tom’s front garden, some smaller birds, probably tits, a blackbird shouting… and that’s just at the moment. We also have plenty of crows, occasionally rooks, robins, finches… oh any number of different birds… but I have never seen a thrush in our garden.
I remember thrushes from my Cambridgeshire childhood and how beautifully they sang… For some reason they don’t seem to like this little part of the west country. Edward Dowden wrote this poem about a thrush. Dowden was born in 1843 in Cork, and as I had my Irish class today an Irish poet seems a good choice for today’s sonnet. He was a critic and a poet, and he died in 1913.
The Singer
“That was the thrush’s last good-night,” I thought,
And heard the soft descent of summer rain
In the drooped garden leaves; but hush! again
The perfect iterence,–freer than unsought
Odours of violets dim in woodland ways,
Deeper than coiled waters laid a-dream
Below mossed ledges of a shadowy stream,
And faultless as blown roses in June days.
Full-throated singer! art thou thus anew
Voiceful to hear how round thyself alone
The enriched silence drops for thy delight
More soft than snow, more sweet than honey-dew?
Now cease: the last faint western streak is gone,
Stir not the blissful quiet of the night
Edward Dowden
Lois Elsden 