Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign
To put upon the cover of this book?
Who heard thee singing in the distance dim,
The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood,
When the damp freshness of the morning earth
Was full of pungent¹ sweetness and thy song?
Who followed over moss² and twisted roots,
And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines
Where slanting³ sunbeams gleamed uncertainly,
While ever clearer came the dropping notes,
Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed
Thee singing on a spray of branching beech,
Hidden, then seen; and always that same song
Of joyful⁴ sweetness, rapture⁵ incarnate,
Filled the hushed, rustling⁶ stillness of the wood?
We do not know what bird thou art.  Perhaps
That fairy bird, fabled⁷ in island tale,
Who never sings but once, and then his song
Is of such fearful beauty that he dies
From sheer exuberance⁸ of melody.
For this they took thee, little bird, for this
They captured thee, tilting⁹ among the leaves,
And stamped thee for a symbol on this book.
For it contains a song surpassing thine,
Richer, more sweet, more poignant¹⁰.  And the poet
Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart
Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew
A little while, and then he died; too frail
To bear this untamed, passionate¹¹ burst of song.

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