Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west.
And I said in underbreath,—all our life is mixed with death,
And who knoweth which is best?
Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,
And I smiled to think God’s greatness flowed around our incompleteness—
Round our restlessness, His rest.
E. B. Browning (Rhyme of the Duchess May).
I go to prove my soul!
I see my way as birds their trackless way.