As he gurgles and shouts in his toil:
It is brimming with rapture, his wild employ,
Bearing a straw for spoil.
So I know ‘twas a joyous God
Who stretched out the splendor of things,
And gave to my bird the cool green sod,
A sky, and a venture of wings.
But why are my brothers so still?
They are building a lordly hall—
They are building a palace there on the hill,