_He owns the bird-songs of the hills--
The laughter of the April rills;
And his are all the diamonds set
In Morning's dewy coronet,--
And his the Dusk's first minted stars
That twinkle through the pasture-bars
And litter all the skies at night
With glittering scraps of silver light;--
The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim,
In beaten gold, belongs to him._
