A spirit is singing a song somewhere,
As I go out to my work—
Singing aloud in the open air
And wherever echoes lurk.
Now I say to myself, 'What spirit is this
That pipes so clear and strong;
For it cannot be a bird, I wis,
That sings such a wondrous song.
Yet, if bird it be that with such an art
Pours out this melody,
Then a mighty spirit is in his heart
When he sings this song to me.
But I take the other side, and say—
Of spirits there is a dearth;
And angels but seldom come this way
To pipe a song on earth.
And poets cannot live in the air
As doth that one white cloud,
Or I would say that one was there,
And was thinking his thoughts aloud.'
But, whether he poet be or bird,
He pipes full well and strong,
And hath the gift that can make him be heard
Whatever may be his song.
For such gushes of mellow music come
Upon the drinking ear,
That what song I claim as mine is dumb
When a singer like this is near.
Hark! how the balmy notes are raised
But to fall in a golden gush;
O, fool, whom a poet's lore has crazed,
Have you never heard the thrush?