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. |