Out of the heart there flew a little singing bird,
Past the dawn and the dew, where leaves of morning stirred,
And the heart, which followed on, said: " Though the bird be flown
Which sang in the dew and the dawn, the song is still my own. "

Over the foot-worn track, over the rock and thorn,
The tired heart looked back to the olive leaves of morn,
To the fair, lost fields again, and said: " I hear it! Oh, hark! " —
Though the bird were long since slain, though the song had died in the dark.