Poetry Archives

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.