Joy of the Morning

I hear you, little bird, Shouting aswing above the broken wall. Shout louder yet: no song can tell it all. Sing to my soul in the deep still wood: ’Tis wonderful beyond the wildest word: I’d tell it, too, if I could.

Oft when the white, still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, I’ve felt it like a glory in my heart— (The world’s mysterious stir) But had no throat like yours, my bird, Nor such a listener.