Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight;
But mine is the glory to sunshine given—
Sing, sing through the echoing heaven!
“Mine are the wings of the soaring morn,
Mine are the fresh gales with dayspring born:
Only young rapture can mount so high—
Sing, sing through the echoing sky!”
So those two voices met; so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,—