In the twilight carols a bird. It is March here still:
The bough hangs bare, and the earth and the air are chill.
And—had I my will—have I any song to be heard:
Any voice to make others rejoice—not a word? Not a word!

His heart, out of gladness within, pours gladness without.
No nook in this garden that hears him—no alley or glade—
But sounds like the arbours of Eden while he is about:
His voice in the garden is God's, and has made me afraid.

“Where are you? Where are you?” he cries. “I am here! I am here!”
Comes a voice out of cover responding:—alas, but not mine!
I have eaten the bread of the wise, I am drunken with care;
I know I am mortal. But he, that knows not, is divine.