How blest the wounded bird that sings 
With such a woodland ecstasy, 
Till song is Sorrow's self, and he 
Folds on thy roof his fretted wings, 
All pain forgotten when with thee ! 

Thus would my wandered heart achieve 
(So far outborne on wayward tide) 
A still roof in thy heart, to hide 
Shielded from lonely Night, and weave 
Youth's dream again, and there abide 

One bird upon the roof, 
A chorister forlorn, 
Sings to the cloistered Morn, 
Hid in her cloudy woof, 
A song that doth unfold 
Itself in plaited gold. 

Sing what I ne'er can say 
The wave may love the shore, 
The flowers the dews that pour, 
The tired winds love to stay 
On cliffs where moss has lain, 
Spent with the toiling main. 

Dearer to me one heart 
Where I would love to dwell, 
Woven with magic spell 
Into its inner part; 
Sunk in its secrecy 
Like a star in the sea.