The woods have caught the singing flame

in live bouquets of loveliest hue—

the scarlet fink, the chook, the sprew,

that seem to call me by my name.

Such friendship, understanding, truth,

this morning from its Master took

as if San Juan de la Cruz

had written it in his own book,

and went on reading it aloud

until his voice was half the awe

with which this loneliness is loud,

and every word were what I saw

live, shine, or suffer in that Ray

whose only shadow is our day.