Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

I see the Flowers free, And a little bird singing on a tree. It sings to me the whole day long, And I love to hear it's pretty song.

Behold, within the leafy shade, Those bright blue eggs together laid! On me the chance-discovered sight Gleamed like a vision of delight.

Pleasures newly found are sweet When they lie about our feet.