Aflame with joy that bower.
Such rich and rounded notes proceed from thee,
Enchanting naiveté:
From sleep thou wakest me with highborn glee,
When comes the King of day.
At eventide thou callest me to prayer,
More clear than churchly chime,
In wood and sky, in pure, perfumed air—
His temple, thine and mine.
No passing wonder, sing Nightingales