  O little poet, winging through The sheer, clear blue, Is it the sky you’re singing to? Or is it that afar you see Some leafy, laden apple-tree, And half concealed and half confessed, A nest? Ah, truly now, I would I knew The happy secret of your glee, That joy wherewith you birds are blest, Red-breast! So airy and so light of wing, You soar and sing, I pray, could you not softly fling, My merry minstrel, down to me Some echo of that melody That spills from out your tiny bill? Some trill Of all those liquid tones that ring So full of purest poetry, That rhyme, and chime, and thrill, until They fill Whose blue tides bear Their witching sweetness everywhere? O little master, heed to me! And ah, so true, so tenderly, I’ll learn to sing how lovely grows This rose, Till, by and by, dear heart, I’ll dare To touch some bolder note, maybe, Some chord whence deeper music flows; Who knows?
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