You would pass it by among the rest,
Curious world, as you haste along,
The tiny, secret joy possessed,
The heart of life and the fount of song,
Kept securely above your wrong.
Safe as a bird's nest high in a tree,
On the outermost twig, where it bends and swings,
Out of reach of any one see,
And safe for the dweller, without his wings,
Because the lightest and smallest of things.
They may look and listen underneath,
When leaves are thick in the festal June,
And think the old tree all abreath,
It trembles so in the stillest noon
With the overflow of the raptured tune,
As if the spirit were in its boughs
That keeps such joy in the air afloat;
The tiny singer in his great house
Swelling the while his tireless throat,
More than a bird's joy in the note.
For all that the glorious tree receives,
When spring her beautiful robe lets fall,
Crown of blossoms and wealth of leaves,
A pillar in earth's great banquet-hall,
There is only the robin's voice for all.
Sing, sing on, glad heart, sweet mouth!
The precious burthen is all for thee;
Wind of the west and wind of the south
Kiss the boughs of the happy tree
Where Joy is mated with Harmony,
Keeping its summers with music rife,
Its winters warm with the empty nest;
Through its flushing and waning life,
Still the home of the singing guest,
Blessed always above the rest.
