A sense of summer,—full fields of wheat,
Full forests and waters cool.
My heart is high, is high, my heart,
As the bee's that groans and swinks
In the dabbled flowers that dart and part
To his woolly bulk when he drinks.
My heart is high, is high, my heart,—
Oh, sing again, O good, gray bird,
That I may get that lilt by heart,
And fit each note with a word.