Canto LXXXVI

Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,

      Rings Eden through the budded quicks,

      O tell me where the senses mix,

O tell me where the passions meet,

Whence radiate: fierce extremes employ

      Thy spirits in the dusking leaf,

      And in the midmost heart of grief

Thy passion clasps a secret joy:

And I—my harp would prelude woe—

      I cannot all command the strings;

      The glory of the sum of things

Will flash along the chords and go.