A speckled thrush upon a bush pours forth her matin hymn A new-born hope has in her woke; with her 'tis not a whim. Some wondrous thrills her bosom fills - what can she do but sing When back again o'er wood and plain has come the joyful Spring. Tomás Ó Muircheartaigh holding a bird. …
The Joyful Spring
