When the full-throated people of the air,
Harmonious preachers of the sweets of love,
That midway range, as half at home with heaven,
Are quiring, with a heartiness of joy
That the high tide of song o’erbrims the grove,
And far adown the meadow runs to waste;
How would the soul, there floating, loathe to mark
Sudden contention; sharp, discordant screams,
From throats whose single duty is a song!
Not with less sure revolting—ah! far more!