I hear the voices of singers,
Whose songs stir the pulses of men;
They stand on their mountains of vision,
Each answers each other again.
They are rapt in a whirlwind of passion;
They rise white-lipped at a wrong;
The world turns half round to listen,
For they are the eagles of song.
But between the gusts of their music
And the pomp and march of their words
There comes from the depth of the woodland
The chirp and the twitter of birds.
They sing, and their songs are the sweeter
If no one is standing nigh,
For what should they care for us mortals,
When they sing to the earth and the sky.
And I who toil by the wayside,
In the weary dust and heat,
I pause for a moment to listen,
For the singing is soft and sweet.
It breathes of the spirit of gladness,
And sunshine that flickers and plays;
Of streams that chatter and murmur
Through the length of the summer days.
What of the songs of the singers
That float from the heights above?
What of the songs of the woodlands
That are full of light and of love?
The songs from the mountains of vision,
They thrill my ear and depart,
But the twitter that comes from the woodland
Sinks deep down into my heart.