Publisher's Synopsis
Excerpt from The Works of Lewis Morris
MY soul is as a bird Singing in fair weather, Deep in shady woodlands through the evening's dewy calm Every glossy feather On her full throat stirred, As she pours out, rapt, unconscious, all the sweetness Of her psalm Mounting high, and higher, higher, Soaring now, now falling, dying; Now through silvery pauses sigh ing Throbbing now with joyous strife, And rushing tides Of lore and life, Till some ray of heavenly fire Shot obliquely through the shade, Pierces her; and lo the strain Of the music she has made Fills her with a sudden pain.
Then she forgets to sing Her former songs of gladness Sitting mute in silence sweeter than the Old forgotten lays Till anon some note of sadness, Long-drawn, languishing, Faint at first, swells onward slowly to a subtler depth of praise, As the low, wild, minor, broken By the ghosts of gayer fancies, Like a rippling stream advances, Till the full tide grown too deep, Whispers first, then falls asleep. Then, as souls with no word spoken Grow together, she, mute and still, Thrills through with a secret voice, the farthest heaven can fill, And constrains her to rejoice.
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