O Singers, up the heights of gold
Whereon Song dwells—with thoughts that run
To music, as the flowers unfold
And gladden to the sun,

Is there, amid the fadeless bloom
Of rose and bay, low at your feet,
A little room, O ye, with whom
The lowliest place were sweet?

A reed within some river-bed
That grew, with drifting weeds afloat,
A reed by rude hands fashioned
To pipe one slender note,—

Lo, such am I! yet crave the grace
To rest with thee, divinest Song,
A moment's space within the ways
That I have loved so long!