My heart is astir with what
this morning
I caught aloft under a bluebell sky.
A bird who trills high, yet smaller
than small
Is it's frame, and seemed to be making reply
To my spirit which soared as
I spied crest
Of gold above darkest large eye.
The park
Which graces this valley will never best
The feathered perfection I saw,
just marking
His tiny terrain with sublime bird-talk.
That Goldcrest at Tuckingmill
crowned my walk.
how delightful