Canto LXXXVI
Wild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,Rings Eden through the budded quicks,O tell me where the senses mix,O tell me where the passions meet,
Whence radiate: fierce extremes employThy spirits in the dusking leaf,And in the midmost heart of griefThy passion clasps a secret joy:
And I—my harp would prelude woe—I cannot all command the strings;The glory of the sum of thingsWill flash along the chords and go.