Through dewy grass, nor small birds hushed in bowers,
Nor unto silent leaves and drowsy flowers,— 5
That voice of unpretending harmony
(For who what is shall measure by what seems
To be, or not to be,[309]
Or tax high Heaven with prodigality?)
Wants not a healing influence that can creep 10
Into the human breast, and mix with sleep
To regulate the motion of our dreams
For kindly issues—as through every clime