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There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky,
But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody:
Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like red gold,
And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, these little ones, who far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.
But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound, from yonder wood it came;
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name;—
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind,
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind;
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,—his notes are void of art,
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart!
