In Memoriam 88. [Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,]

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