Singer of priceless melody, Underguerdoned chorister of air, Who from the lithe top of the tree Pourest at will thy music rare, As if a sudden brook laughed down the hill-side there. The purple-blossomed fields of grass, Waved sea-like to the idle wind, Thick daisies that the stars surpass, Being as fair and far more kind;-- All sweet uncultured things thy wild notes bring to mind. When that enraptured overflow Of singing into silence dies, Thy rapid fleeting pinions show Where all thy spell of sweetness lies Gathered in one small nest from the wide earth and skies. Unconscious of thine audience, Careless of praises as of blame, In simpleness and innocence, Thy gentle life pursues its aim, So tender and serene, that we might blush for shame. The patience of thy brooding wings That droop in silence day by day, The little crowd of callow things That joy for weariness repay,-- These are the living spring, thy song the fountain's spray.
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