Jubilant the music through the fields a-ringing, —
Carol, warble, whistle, pipe, — endless ways of singing,
Oriole, bobolink, melody of thrushes,
Rustling trees, hum of bees, sudden little hushes,
Broken suddenly again —
Carol, whistle, rustle, humming,
In reiterate refrain,
Thither, hither, going, coming,
While the streamlets' softer voices mingle murmurously together;
Gurgle, whisper, lapses, plashes, — praise of love and summer weather.

Hark! A music finer on the air is blowing, —
Throbs of infinite content, sounds of things a-growing,
Secret sounds, flit of bird under leafy cover,
Odors shy floating by, clouds blown swiftly over,
Kisses of the crimson roses,
Crosses of the lily-lances,
Stirrings when a bud uncloses,
Tripping sun and shadow dances,
Murmur of airial tides, stealthy zephyrs gliding,
And a thousand nameless things sweeter for their hiding.

Ah! a music more than these floweth on forever,
In and out, yet all beyond our tracing or endeavor,
Far yet clear, strange yet near, sweet with a profounder sweetness,
Mystical, rhythmical, weaving all into completeness;
For its wide, harmonious measures
Not one earthly note let fall;
Sorrows, raptures, pains and pleasures,
All in it, and it in all.
Of earth's music the ennobler, of its discord the refiner,
Pipe of Pan was once its naming, now it hath a name diviner.