Ah, do not tell me what they mean,
The tremulous brook, the scarcely stirred
June leaves, the hum of things unseen,
This sovran bird.
Do they say things so deep, and rare,
And perfect? I can only tell
That they are happy, and can bear
Such ignorance well;
Feeding on all things said and sung
From hour to hour in this high wood
Articulate in a strange, sweet tongue
Not understood.