The Forest Bird

The loveliest things of earth are not
Her lilies, waterfalls or trees;
Or clouds that float like still, white stones
Carved upon azure seas;
Or snow-white orchids, scarlet-lipped
In darkness of damp woods,
In hush of shadowy leaves;
Or the pale foam that lights the coast
Of earth on moonless eves.

The moon is lovely, and the sea's
Bright shadow on the sand;
The phantom vessel as it glides
Out from a phantom land;
And, hung above the shadowed earth,
Moored in a crystal sky,
That fleet of phantom lights:
These are but beauty's fading flags,
Her perishable delights.

But in transparency of thought
Out of the branched, dark-foliaged wood
There flits a strange, soft-glimmering light,
Shy as a forest bird.
Most lovely and most shy it comes
From realms of sense unknown,
And sings of earthly doom,
Of an immortal happiness
In the soul's deepening gloom.