O Birds, sweet children of the air,
O Clouds, the zenith’s virgin daughters,
By dawn saluted, beings fair,
Watched by the blue eye of the waters;
Ye the first named by Eve in bliss,
Ye for whom God, redoubted king,
Greeted light – this vast abyss,
And liberty – this open wing;
Ye, from the gulf where we have homes,
Seen in the great mysterious heaven,
Ye, who, admiring not the Romes,
To ant-hills more esteem have given;
Ye whom, amid its shades, the dew
Creates or waters with its tears,
Birds out of shadowy nests who floew,
Clouds risen from roses to your spheres:
O speak ye, whom the day creates
Far flights illimitably free
Ye the frank ether penetrates
With glory & serenity;
Ye who behold the mount austere;
Fresh morn & dusky evening view,
With all the earth & all the more, –
Eternal voyages of the blue;
What say they in the night serene
What think they in the luminous deep,
Of all this human vileness, seen
Below the immensity to creep?
