To praise the thing superb, well done,
To feel that praise inside you spring
Like sparrows to the risen sun,
Your lips like roses, ope’ to sing,
Though speech not yet has gathered fire
To wing glad song from off your lyre,—
This perfect state of welling praise
Swelling, lifting eyes ablaze,
I, for songs of yours stand proud
To sing them high, and strong, and loud!
Naught of praise is good as this:
The joy inside that joins its bliss
To blood and body, muscle, bone,
Its light within the mind half known,
To clasp the thought and judgment true
With sun-struck peak of poems brand new!