I love the wet-lipped wind that stirs the hedge      And kisses the bent flowers that drooped for rain, That stirs the poppy on the sun-burned ledge      And like a swan dies singing, without pain. The golden bees go buzzing down to stain      The lilies' frills, and the blue harebell rings, And the sweet blackbird in the rainbow sings. Deep in the meadows I would sing a song,      The shallow brook my tuning-fork, the birds My masters; and the boughs they hop along      Shall mark my time: but there shall be no words For lurking Echo's mock; an angel herds      Words that I may not know, within, for you, Words for the faithful meet, the good and true.