| I heard a thousand blended notes, | |
| While in a grove I sate reclined, | |
| In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts | |
| Bring sad thoughts to the mind. | |
| | |
| To her fair works did Nature link | 5 |
| The human soul that through me ran; | |
| And much it grieved my heart to think | |
| What man has made of man. | |
| | |
| Through primrose tufts, in that green bower, | |
| The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; | 10 |
| And ’tis my faith that every flower | |
| Enjoys the air it breathes. | |
| | |
| The birds around me hopped and played, | |
| Their thoughts I cannot measure:— | |
| But the least motion which they made | 15 |
| It seemed a thrill of pleasure. | |
| | |
| The budding twigs spread out their fan, | |
| To catch the breezy air; | |
| And I must think, do all I can, | |
| That there was pleasure there. | 20 |
| | |
| If this belief from heaven be sent, | |
| If such be Nature’s holy plan, | |
| Have I not reason to lament | |
| What man has made of man? | |
