But a bright morning--when the lark Is painted on the light blue sky, And vapors rest upon the dark, Deep pools of ebony that lie In the hill shadows; when the leaves Are stirring with the scented air, And the bright drops that evening weaves Like diamonds in the wavy hair Of nature, glisten; when the wing Of the light wind is but a shrine On which the lowliest flower may fling Its gift of odors; when the vine Hath lifted its coarse leaf to show Its azure clusters to the sun, And quickened by his amorous glow, The curling shoots stir one by one; When every fibre, blade, and stem That lifteth to the arch of blue, Is jewelled with its droplet gem, And every bathed and dainty hue Hath a clear April freshness; when The birds go caroling like streams O’er pebbly courses, and the glen Reechoes patiently the themes A thousand summers and their birds Have given in those very words; When every nerve is nobly strung, And leaping pulses swiftly pass, And care is from the spirit flung Like rain-drops from the swaying grass-- I feel as if my spirit took From nature a new gift of sight, And I could read her living book By perfect and immediate light, And knew, as angels know, how broad Is the benevolence of God. II. It is a glorious morning. Storm Hath left no traces, and the warm, Rich sunshine cometh like a strain Of parted music, back again. The trees are bare, but like a true And changeless friend, the sun shines through, And round the sad and fallen leaves His mesh of light he softly weaves. I see and feel how very fair This summer sun, and breezes are; I see the white, thin vapors wreathed About the hills as if they breathed; I see the sky’s pure, delicate blue, Like a soft eye which melts me through, And I’ve remembered the sweet eyes I likened to those gentle skies, And gazed this hour as if their look Were written in that azure book, And the long echo came but now Of my hot speech and silly vow. I cannot wander; but I know How earth’s deep voices softly flow; I know how light the waters run O’er the sere grass and fretful stone; I know how fountains leap, how still The winds creep over lake and hill; The Autumn birds, the last leaf-fall, The morn’s sweet breath--I know them all. I know them all--and yet my feet Are not where singing waters meet; My books are for the running streams, And stupid schoolmen for the dreams Of gentle spirits; I am tied While nature joyeth like a bride; Chained down to reason on the cool, Dull precepts of a skeptic’s rule, While beauty over earth and sea Is gushing as a fount let free.