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


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Last modified 13 February 2010