Oh , hark to the brown thrush! hear how he sings!
— How he pours the dear pain of his gladness!
What a gush! and from out what golden springs!
— What a rage of how sweet madness!

And golden the buttercup blooms by the way,
— A song of the joyous ground;
While the melody rained from yonder spray
— Is a blossom in fields of sound.

How glisten the eyes of the happy leaves!
— How whispers each blade, " I am blest! "
Rosy Heaven his lips to flowered earth gives,
— With the costliest bliss of his breast.

Pour, pour of the wine of thy heart, O Nature!
— By cups of field and of sky,
By the brimming soul of every creature! —
— Joy-mad, dear Mother, am I.

Tongues, tongues for my joy, for my joy! more tongues! —
— Oh, thanks to the thrush on the tree,
To the sky, and to all earth's blooms and songs!
— They utter the heart in me.