Dear bird of mine, with strong and untried wing,
Ignorant yet of restless fluttering,
How long will you be so content to sing
For me alone? when will the world be stirred
By notes that even I have scarcely heard,
Since you are still only a mocking-bird?
My little Clytie with the constant eyes
Turned to me ever, though the true sunrise
Burns far above me in God’s holy skies,—
How can you know, my sweet unconscious one,