The Sparrow Poem by Philip Henry Savage

THE morning lay divinely bright
Across near field and distant height.
From his high tower the influent sun
Controlled the shifting tides of air,
Which first in flow would lightly run,
Then fall in ebb of radiance rare.

One sparrow on an elm-tree high
Conceived the day as fair as I.
Midway the high bank of the tree
He sat upon a beakèd branch,
And poured into the engulfing sea
His music's slender avalanche.

His pipe was sharp, his numbers few,
And caught no ear but me and you.
Yet forth upon his promontory
He stood in the wide sea of air,
And bore his witness to the glory
With all the heart a thrush might dare.