Whence didst thou spring, or art thou yet unborn;
Who treadst with slighting foot so swift along,
Where near thee rises green the bladed corn,
And from the tree pours forth the bird's new song?
Thy heart is ever fluttering, ne'er at rest;
A bird that e'er would soar with wily art,
Yet when she seems of what she wished possest,
She feels the strength from out her wings depart;
Learn wisdom from the sweet delaying voice,
And from its melody turn not thine ear;
With springing grain in slow decay rejoice,
And thou at one shall be with all things here;
And thy desires that now o'er-top the grain,
Shall with its growth a life like theirs sustain.