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Oh, the glance of the dew! Oh, the flame of the rose springing forth of the thorn!
Oh, the song of the arrow-marked finch singing love in the front of the morn!
Who will not speak to them all of the rapture they wake in the children of men?
Who will so lovingly speak, they will heed, and answer again?


The glance of the dew but repeateth the liquid glance of the sky,
And the flame of the rose is not brighter, in token, as man passes by,
And the song of the finch, though his little heart with ecstasy break,
From the answering rapture of man no quickening impulse shall take.


O drops of the dew! O pride of the thorn! O singing bird!
Is there never a mutual tongue, is there never a common word,
Wherein to give thanks, wherein to give praise, from the hearts ye have filled?
With the pure distilment of joy which your cup, over-brimming, has spilled?


If but one moment, in all the swift season giddy with change,
We that are God's one creation, yet strangers, might be less strange!
But this is the pain of the pleasure--the bitter-sweet which man drains:
Unconscious-glad Nature unconscious of man forever remains!