Is it for joy thou pourest forth thy heart
In a rich flood of music, loud and long?
If so, what means the plaint that forms a part
Of such triumphant song?

What blessedness has made thy spirit glad?
What unknown grief can in thy breast be bound?
Ah, sorrow sure did never ring so sad!
Nor joy more joyful sound!

But thine is not the only breast on earth
Where clash the two extremes of joy and grief!—
Nor lone heart to whom pleasure's wildest mirth
Can bring but poor relief!

Thou long'st to revel in the free sunshine,
Or nestle in some grove where green leaves play—
And so this weary prisoned soul of mine,
Like thee, would fly away!