A young bird fell last night across the dark

And was not. In the willow hung its nest;

But yesterday, with proud and beating breast,

From bough to bough it crossed a fairy arc;

Among its kindred barely did we hark

Its first delightful carol, or note the crest

Grow into golden-violet loveliest;

There was no dial in our thought to mark

The sealÈd possibilities of days,

The unwrought miracle of happy singing:

And now, tho’ newly fail our earthly sense,

Elsewhere that delicate intelligence

Bursts into blossom of harmonious lays,

All summer on a comely tree-top swinging.