The artist who dabbles with color and brush
Sees but the reflection of nature's flush.
The skilled musician knows not pure tone;
He hears but the resonance of his own.
'Tis the peasant girl, as she hurries along,
Who hears the lark's good morning song.
She hears it with gladness; her heart is gay;
All nature greets her in festal array.
The lark makes her world a world of song
His notes in her heart sing her whole life long.