  I dwell near a murmur of leaves, And my labor is sweeter than rest; For over my head in the shade of the eaves A throstle is building his nest. And he teaches me gospels of joy, As he gurgles and shouts in his toil: It is brimming with rapture, his wild employ, Bearing a straw for spoil. So I know ‘twas a joyous God Who stretched out the splendor of things, And gave to my bird the cool green sod, A sky, and a venture of wings. But why are my brothers so still? They are building a lordly hall— They are building a palace there on the hill, But there’s never a song in it all!
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