Wild bird

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,

Rings Eden thro' the budded quicks,

O tell me where the senses mix,

O tell me where the passions meet,

Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ

Thy spirits in the darkening leaf,

And in the midmost heart of grief

Thy passion clasps a secret joy:

And I -- my harp would prelude woe --

I cannot all command the strings;

The glory of the sum of things

Will flash along the chords and go.