OH, HARK to the brown thrush ! hear how he sings !
How he pours the dear pain of his gladness !
What a gush ! and from out what golden springs !
What a rage of how sweet madness !

And golden the buttercup blooms by the way,
A song of the joyous ground ;
While the melody rained from yonder spray
Is a blossom in fields of sound.

How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves !
How whispers each blade, “ I am blest! ”
Rosy heaven his lips to flowered earth gives,
With the costliest bliss of his breast.

Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature,
By cups of field and of sky,
By the brimming soul of every creature ! —
Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I !

Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy ! more tongues ! —
Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree,
To the sky, and to all earth’s blooms and songs !
They utter the heart in me.