  Ah, do not tell me what they mean, The tremulous brook, the scarcely stirred June leaves, the hum of things unseen, This sovran bird. Do they say things so deep, and rare, And perfect? I can only tell That they are happy, and can bear Such ignorance well; Feeding on all things said and sung From hour to hour in this high wood Articulate in a strange, sweet tongue Not understood. |
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