Why wilt thou make bright music
Give forth a sound of pain?
Why wilt thou weave fair flowers
Into a weary chain?
Why turn each cool grey shadow
Into a world of fears?
Why think the winds are wailing?
Why call the dewdrops tears?
Voices of happy Nature,
And Heaven’s sunny gleam,
Reprove thy sick heart’s fancies,
Upbraid thy foolish dream.
Listen! I will tell thee
The song Creation sings,
From humming bees in heather,
To fluttering angels’ wings:
Not alone did angels sing it
To the poor shepherds’ ear,
But the spherèd Heavens chant it,
And listening Ages hear.
Above thy poor complaining
Rises that holy lay;
When the starry night grows silent,
Then speaks the sunny day.
O, leave thy sick heart’s fancies,
And lend thy little voice
To the silver song of Glory,
That bids the World rejoice!