Wild little bird, who chose thee for a sign
          To put upon the cover of this book?
          Who heard thee singing in the distance dim,
          The vague, far greenness of the enshrouding wood,
          When the damp freshness of the morning earth
          Was full of pungent sweetness and thy song?

          Who followed over moss and twisted roots,
          And pushed through the wet leaves of trailing vines
          Where slanting sunbeams gleamed uncertainly,
          While ever clearer came the dropping notes,
          Until, at last, two widening trunks disclosed
          Thee singing on a spray of branching beech,
          Hidden, then seen; and always that same song
          Of joyful sweetness, rapture incarnate,
          Filled the hushed, rustling stillness of the wood?

          We do not know what bird thou art.  Perhaps
          That fairy bird, fabled in island tale,
          Who never sings but once, and then his song
          Is of such fearful beauty that he dies
          From sheer exuberance of melody.

          For this they took thee, little bird, for this
          They captured thee, tilting among the leaves,
          And stamped thee for a symbol on this book.
          For it contains a song surpassing thine,
          Richer, more sweet, more poignant.  And the poet
          Who felt this burning beauty, and whose heart
          Was full of loveliest things, sang all he knew
          A little while, and then he died; too frail
          To bear this untamed, passionate burst of song.

          Glinting golden through the trees,
           Apples of Hesperides!
          Through the moon-pierced warp of night
          Shoot pale shafts of yellow light,
          Swaying to the kissing breeze
          Swings the treasure, golden-gleaming,
           Apples of Hesperides!

          Far and lofty yet they glimmer,
           Apples of Hesperides!
          Blinded by their radiant