All the birds shall sing to me,
When I reach heaven.
All the leaves shall dance for me,
Seven times seven.
All the rills of bliss shall run,
Cloud-free from out its sun;
All the flowers, of all bowers,
Pour me fragrance, hours and hours;
All the air I breathe shall be
Joy's sweet leaven.

Mystic apples shall I pluck
For my soul's feeding.
On a green palm-bed I'll lie,
Man and God reading.
I will fan me with the wings
Of my own imaginings;
And, to dally down each alley
Of its dream enverdured valley,
I will follow every breeze
Languorously leading.

When I wish too I will scale
Tops of mountain beauty.
I will learn how dawns are made,
How stars do their duty.
I will hold the high moon's sphere
Oft to my attentive ear.
And each comet, trailing from it
Leagues of light, shall be a plummet
For my soul through deeps of space
Strewn with death's booty.
Yes, I'll do this every day,
In the vales of Heaven.
For my need of it will be
Seven times seven:
Need of birds and mystic rills,
Need of apples for soul-ills;
Need of vision, where, elysian
Dews shall stir my heart's decision
To delight in love — and in
Life's Immortal leaven.