I.
When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,
A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,
Did seem to sing a song for my delight;
And, far away, did make its holy steven
Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;
And I did weep thereat in my despite.
II.
O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,
Of all this splendour that we call the earth!
For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,
But who will hear the matins that I sing?
Who will be glad to greet me in the spring,
Or heed the voice of one so little worth?
III.
Who will accept the thanks I would entone
For having met thee? and for having seen
Thy face an instant in the bower serene
Of perfect faith? The splendour was thine own,
The rapture mine; and Doubt was overthrown,
And Grief forgot the keynote of its threne.
IV.
I rose in haste. I seiz'd, as in a trance,
My violin, the friend I love the best
(After thyself, sweet soul!) and wildly press'd,
And firmly drew it, with a master's glance,
Straight to my heart! The sunbeams seem'd to dance
Athwart the strings, to rob me of my rest.
V.
For then a living thing it did appear,
And every chord had sympathies for me;
And something like a lover's lowly plea
Did shake its frame, and something like a tear
Fell on my cheek, to mind me of the year
When first we met, we two, beside the sea.