The word of the sun to the sky,
The word of the wind to the sea,
The word of the moon to the night,
What may it be?
The sense to the flower of the fly,
The sense of the bird to the tree,
The sense to the cloud of the light,
Who can tell me?
The song of the fields to the kye,
The song of the lime to the bee,
The song of the depth to the height,
Who knows all three?
The message of April to May
That May sends on into June
And June gives out to July
For birthday boon;
The delight of the dawn in the day,
The delight of the day in the noon,
The delight of a song in a sigh
That breaks the tune;
The secret of passing away,
The cost of the change of the moon,
None knows it with ear or with eye,
But all will soon.
The live wave's love for the shore,
The shore's for the wave as it dies,
The love of the thunder-fire
That sears the skies,
We shall know not though life wax hoar,
Till all life, spent into sighs,
Burn out as consumed with desire
Of death's strange eyes;
Till the secret be secret no more
In the light of one hour as it flies,
Be the hour as of suns that expire
Or suns that rise.