A YOUNG bird fell last night across the dark
And was not. In the willow hung its nest;
But yesterday, with proud and beating breast,
From bough to bough it crossed a fairy arc;
Among its kindred barely did we hark
Its first delightful carol, or note the crest
Grow into golden-violet loveliest;
There was no dial in our thought to mark
The sealèd possibilities of days,
The unwrought miracle of happy singing:
And now, tho’ newly fail our earthly sense,
Elsewhere that delicate intelligence
Bursts into blossom of harmonious lays,
All summer on a comely tree-top swinging.