Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet, Rings Eden through 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 dusking 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.