| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | To a Golden-Crowned Thrush | | By Richard Hunt |
| | | HURLED from a fairy catapult, | |
| Up like a song gone somersaulting, | |
| Up like a dream to the white moon vaulting, | |
| I hear your liquid voice exult. | |
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| Half to the moon I hear you sigh | 5 |
| Like trees, and ripple on like brooks; | |
| The magic of the wild wood-nooks | |
| You shake out through the silver sky. | |
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| Oh, tell me, are you bursting so | |
| With secrets that the woodlands tell | 10 |
| That you must hurtle from the dell, | |
| And up, so all the air shall know? | |
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| Are you a song and nothing else, | |
| Gone tumbling up the night of June? | |
| Is that your form against the moon, | 15 |
| That trembles, palpitates and melts? | |
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| Now your crescendos, note on note, | |
| Like one last challenge wildly pour … | |
| And then you float to earth once more— | |
| Unseen, as dreams and silence float. | 20 | | | |
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