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.