What voice of gladness, hark ! 
In heaven is ringing ? 
From the sad fields the lark 
Is upward winging. 

High through the mournful mist that blots our day 
Their songs betray 
them soaring in the grey. 
See them ! Nay, they

In sunlight swim ; above the furthest stain 
Of cloud attain ; 
their hearts in music rain
Upon the plain. 

Sweet birds, far out of sight 
Your songs of pleasure
Dome us with joy as bright 
As heaven's best azure.