THE GRAY LINNET
THERE'S a little gray friar in yonder green bush,Clothed in sackcloth—a little gray friarLike a druid of old in his temple—but hush!He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies,And around us so wantonly float,Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread fliesFrom the silvery reel of his throat?When he roams, though he stains not his path through the airWith the splendor of tropical wings,All the lustre denied to his russet plumes thereFlashes forth through his lay when he sings;For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise,Though in such a plain garb he appears,That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes,He steals in through the gates of your ears.But the cheat!—'tis not heaven he's warbling about—Other passions, less holy, betide—For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping outFrom a bunch of green leaves at his side.
THERE'S a little gray friar in yonder green bush,Clothed in sackcloth—a little gray friarLike a druid of old in his temple—but hush!He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies,And around us so wantonly float,Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread fliesFrom the silvery reel of his throat?When he roams, though he stains not his path through the airWith the splendor of tropical wings,All the lustre denied to his russet plumes thereFlashes forth through his lay when he sings;For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise,Though in such a plain garb he appears,That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes,He steals in through the gates of your ears.But the cheat!—'tis not heaven he's warbling about—Other passions, less holy, betide—For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping outFrom a bunch of green leaves at his side.
THERE'S a little gray friar in yonder green bush,Clothed in sackcloth—a little gray friarLike a druid of old in his temple—but hush!He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.
THERE'S a little gray friar in yonder green bush,
Clothed in sackcloth—a little gray friar
Like a druid of old in his temple—but hush!
He's at vespers; you must not go nigher.
Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies,And around us so wantonly float,Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread fliesFrom the silvery reel of his throat?
Yet, the rogue! can those strains be addressed to the skies,
And around us so wantonly float,
Till the glowing refrain like a shining thread flies
From the silvery reel of his throat?
When he roams, though he stains not his path through the airWith the splendor of tropical wings,All the lustre denied to his russet plumes thereFlashes forth through his lay when he sings;
When he roams, though he stains not his path through the air
With the splendor of tropical wings,
All the lustre denied to his russet plumes there
Flashes forth through his lay when he sings;
For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise,Though in such a plain garb he appears,That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes,He steals in through the gates of your ears.
For the little gray friar is so wondrous wise,
Though in such a plain garb he appears,
That on finding he can't reach your soul through your eyes,
He steals in through the gates of your ears.
But the cheat!—'tis not heaven he's warbling about—Other passions, less holy, betide—For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping outFrom a bunch of green leaves at his side.
But the cheat!—'tis not heaven he's warbling about—
Other passions, less holy, betide—
For, behold, there's a little gray nun peeping out
From a bunch of green leaves at his side.