showering still,
     Unthinking save that he may give
     His voice the outlet, there to live
     Renewed in endless notes of glee,
     So thirsty of his voice is he,
     For all to hear and all to know
     That he is joy, awake, aglow;
     The tumult of the heart to hear
     Through pureness filtered crystal-clear,
     And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
     By simple singing of delight;
     Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained,
     Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustained
     Without a break, without a fall,
     Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,
     Perennial, quavering up the chord
     Like myriad dews of sunny sward
     That trembling into fulness shine,
     And sparkle dropping argentine;
     Such wooing as the ear receives
     From zephyr caught in choric leaves
     Of aspens when their chattering net
     Is flushed to white with shivers wet;
     And such the water-spirit’s chime
     On mountain heights in morning’s prime,
     Too freshly sweet to seem excess,
     Too animate to need a stress;
     But wider over many heads
     The starry voice ascending spreads,
     Awakening, as it waxes thin,
     The best in us to him akin;
     And every face to watch him raised,
     Puts on the light of children praised;
     So rich our human pleasure ripes
     When sweetness on sincereness pipes,
     Though nought be promised from the seas,
     But only a soft-ruffling breeze
     Sweep glittering on a still content,
     Serenity in ravishment
     For singing till his heaven fills,
     ’Tis love of earth that he instils,
     And ever winging up and up,
     Our valley is his golden cup,
     And he the wine which overflows
     To lift us with him as he goes: 
     The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine,
     He is, the hills, the human line,
     The meadows green, the fallows brown,
     The dreams of labour in the town;
     He sings the sap, the quickened veins;
     The wedding song of sun and rains
     He is, the dance of children, thanks
     Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,
     And eye of violets while they breathe;
     All these the circling song will wreathe,
     And you shall hear the herb and tree,
     The better heart of men shall see,
     Shall feel celestially, as long
     As you crave nothing save the song.

     Was never voice of ours could say
     Our inmost in the sweetest way,
     Like yonder voice aloft, and link
     All hearers in the song they drink. 
     Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,
     Our passion is too full in flood,
     We want the key of his wild note
     Of truthful in a tuneful throat;
     The song seraphically free
     Of taint of personality,
     So pure that it salutes the suns