Ah from a little child，

Thou knowest soul how to me all sounds became music，

My mother's voice in lullaby or hymn，

（The voice， O tender voices， memory's loving voices，

Last miracle of all， O dearest mother's， sister's， voices；）

The rain， the growing corn， the breeze among the long-

leav'd corn，

The measur'd sea- surf beating on the sand，

The twittering bird， the hawk's sharp scream，

The wild-fowl's notes at night as flying low migrating north

or south，

The psalm in the country church or mid the clustering trees，

the open