Ah from a little child，

    Thou knowest soul how to me all sounds became music，

    My mother's voice in lullaby or hymn，

    （The voice， O tender voices， memory's loving voices，

    Last miracle of all， O dearest mother's， sister's， voices；）

    The rain， the growing corn， the breeze among the long-

    leav'd corn，

    The measur'd sea- surf beating on the sand，

    The twittering bird， the hawk's sharp scream，

    The wild-fowl's notes at night as flying low migrating north

    or south，

    The psalm in the country church or mid the clustering trees，

    the open