I would my soul were like the bird   
That dares the vastness undeterred.   
Look, where the bluebird on the bough   
Breaks into rapture even now!   
He sings, tip-top, the tossing elm   
As tho he would a world o’erwhelm.   
Indifferent to the void he rides   
Upon the wind’s eternal tides.

He tosses gladly on the gale,
For well he knows he can not fail—
Knows if the bough breaks, still his wings   
Will bear him upward while he sings!