You've got your limitations; let them sing, And all your life will waken with a cry: Why should you halt when rapture's on the wing And you've no limit but the cloud-flocked sky?... But some chap shouts, 'Here, stop it; that's been done!'-- As God might holloa to the rising sun, And then relent, because the glorying rays Reminded Him of glinting Eden days, And Adam's trustful eyes as he looks up From carving eagles on his beechwood cup. Young Adam knew his job; he could condense Life to an eagle from the unknown immense ... Go on, whoever you are; your lines can be A whisper in the music from the weirs Of song that plunge and tumble toward the sea That is the uncharted mercy of our tears. * * * * * * * I told you it was easy: words are fools Who follow blindly, once they get a lead. But thoughts are kingfishers that haunt the pools Of quiet; seldom-seen; and all you need Is just that flash of joy above your dream. So, when those forty platitudes are done, You'll hear a bird-note calling from the stream That wandered through your childhood; and the sun Will strike the old flaming wonder from the waters ... And there'll be forty lines not yet begun. EVERYONE SANG Everyone suddenly burst out singing; And I was filled with such delight As prisoned birds must find in freedom, Winging wildly across the white Orchards and dark-green fields; on--on--and out of sight. Everyone's voice was suddenly lifted; And beauty came like the setting sun: My heart was shaken with tears; and horror Drifted away ... O, but Everyone Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will never be done.