Classic Poem

Upon the outer verge of sleep I heard
A little sparrow piping in the morn;
Upon my very heart the sound was borne;
It seemed to me a something more than bird,
Even Nature's self that touched me with a word:—
“While thou sleepest on, I have not done my duty.
Awake, O man! Of all this gift of beauty
Lose not one grain. The forest deeps are stirred
With morning, and the brooks are loud aflow.”
Perhaps it was a dream, but this I know,
Behind me, as I passed into the sun,
Whether to me or each one to his mate,
I heard the little sparrows one by one
Piping in triumph at my garden gate.