| Indignant at the fumbling wits, the obscure spite |
| Of our old Paudeen in his shop, I stumbled blind |
| Among the stones and thorn-trees, under morning light; |
| Until a curlew cried and in the luminous wind |
| A curlew answered; and suddenly thereupon I thought |
| That on the lonely height where all are in God’s eye, |
| There cannot be, confusion of our sound forgot, |
| A single soul that lacks a sweet crystalline cry. |