⁠Some news too good for words,
⁠Heart‑hushed and smiling, we
⁠Might hope to have of thee,
⁠The youngest of God's birds,
If thy sweet sense might mix itself with ours,
⁠If ours might understand
⁠The language of thy land,
Ere thine become the tongue of mortal hours:

⁠Ere thy lips learn too soon
⁠Their soft first human tune,
⁠Sweet, but less sweet than now,
⁠And thy raised eyes to read
⁠Glad and good things indeed,
⁠But none so sweet as thou:
Ere thought lift up their flower‑soft lids to see
⁠What life and love on earth
⁠Bring thee for gifts at birth,
But none so good as thine who hast given us thee: