O seraph bird who on God's altar-stairs
Dost ring, in showers of silver peals, thy bells
Of song that ceaseless flows like dropping-wells,
And sprinkles all the dusk with holy prayers!
O welkin glad, shot through and through with song,
As upward springs the spirit tipt with flame!
'Tis not to Itys dead nor Dian's shame
These joy-pangs, with their hint of tears, belong.
The life which pulses in the bursting year
A thousand choirs hymn on the sunlit globe;
But, lest the living flame to ashes turn,
Thou, in the voiceless night, O priestly seer,
Interpreter of nature, tak'st thy robe,
And fill'st with vocal fire the sacred urn.