Nature and Language

Oft, when some happy thought for song is found,
It flits about us like a living thing,
Returning, like the swallow, from each round,
With some new charm of light on breast and wing.
On such fair themes we lavish all our skill,
Though all our skill can scarce their grace record;
A residue of beauty lingers still,
Beyond our fondest art, or latest word.
How seldom does our choicest phrase fulfil
Our heart's desire, or reach our depths of will!
But, when we quit this life of day and hour,
With souls enfranchised, and with sins forgiven,
Our eloquence will be a readier power,
While all our sweetest thoughts go safe to heaven.