And scorn, and wrung from passion’s heat the flame,
And found the song a wailing waste of voice.
My song but reached the earth and echoed o’er its plains.
I sought for one who sang a wordless lay,
And up from ’mong the rushes soared a lark.
Hark to his song!
From sunlight came his gladdening note.
And ah, his trill—the raindrops’ patter!
And think ye that the thief would steal
The rustle of the leaves, or yet