Thou feathered happiness, come down to me,
For I am sick with sorrow. If I sing
My heart will darken as I touch the string,
And yet this summer day is fair to see.
Come nearer to me, O thou glorious bird!
The half of heaven is somewhere in thy song;
Caught when some angel left the full-voiced throng
To hear thee and in turn by thee was heard.
Art thou not coming? Lo! against the sky
A single speck is fading, but I hear
A perfect rain of music to the ear,
Though thou art sightless to the eager eye.
Sing on, and singing lift an upward wing,
It is a perfect bliss to hear thee sing.