Thou feathered minstrel perched in yonder tree,
Thou bird-magician in a blue-gray coat,
Trickster of tune, thou canst repeat by rote
Thy rivals' songs and win their loves to thee!
Song-sorcerer, who canst with melody
Lure us to listen; thou whose slender throat
Is full of magic, bubbling note by note;
Mimic of music, sing thou on to me!

Chatter of blackbird, warble of the wren,
Joy of the jay, and passion of the thrush,
And every trill that ever bird has known, —
I heard him jesting for a while; and then,
Softly upon the morning in a gush
Of lyric love I heard him call his own.

IN vain the quest: no mortal eyes may know
The secret haunt wherein by day and night
She shapes her dreams of audible delight
And sends them forth to wander to and fro:
Spirits of Sound, invisible they go
To fill the world with wonder in their flight;
Celestial voices, from whose starry height
Strange hints of song steal down to earth below.

Listen and hear the rhythmic echoes fall, —
The winds and waves and leaves and bees and birds, —
The blended harmony of reeds and strings, —
Chorus and orchestra, — the voice and all
The miracle of melody and words, —
Music herself it is who dreams and sings!