LXXXVIII.
             
        Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,
            Rings Eden thro’ 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 darkening 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.