The Secret

NIGHTINGALES warble about it,

All night under blossom and star;

The wild swan is dying without it,

And the eagle crieth afar;

The sun he doth mount but to find it,

Searching the green earth o’er;

But more doth a man’s heart mind it,

Oh, more, more, more!

Over the gray leagues of ocean

The infinite yearneth alone;

The forests with wandering emotion

The thing they know not intone;

Creation arose but to see it,

A million lamps in the blue;

But a lover he shall be it

If one sweet maid is true.