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Ah! friend, you little knewHow long at that celestial wickThe angels labored diligent;Extinguished, now, for you!It might have been the lighthouse sparkSome sailor, rowing in the dark,Had importuned to see!It might have been the waning lampThat lit the drummer from the campTo purer reveille!

And sings the tune without the words—And never stops—at all—And sweetest—in the Gale—is heard—And sore must be the storm—That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm—I’ve heard it in the chillest land—And on the strangest Sea—Yet, never, in Extremity,It asked a crumb—of Me.

Except for Angels—lone.Except to some wide-wandering BeeA flower superfluous blown.Except for winds—provincial.Except by ButterfliesUnnoticed as a single dewThat on the Acre lies.The smallest Housewife in the grass,Yet take her from the LawnAnd somebody has lost the faceThat made Existence—Home!

Did place upon the West – Tonight –As ’twere specific Ground –And They – appointed Creatures –In Authorized Arrays –Due – promptly – as a Drama –That bows – and disappears –

You see, God bless his suddenness,A fellow in the skiesOf independent hues,A little weather-worn,Inspiriting habilimentsOf indigo and brown.With specimens of song,As if for you to choose,Discretion in the interval,With gay delays he goesTo some superior treeWithout a single leaf,And shouts for joy to nobodyBut his seraphic self!

All other Riches beAs is the Twitter of a Bird—Heard opposite the Sea—I could not care—to gainA lesser than the Whole—For did not this include themself—As Seams—include the Ball?I wished a way might beMy Heart to subdivide—‘Twould magnify—the Gratitude—And not reduce—the Gold—