I.

How well we know what the wild things do,
As Nature riots in the throng:
And there, her soul true, resplendent hue,
The creatures' voice unite in song,
Suffice to poets woo!

II.

Find me by the fire log, my friend,
While the sparks crackle as the magic flows,
Whose beauty Heaven dare not forfend,
Hath pilgrims rapt in throe,
As visions apprehend.

III.

Till the young ones gathered, bud and grow,
Here we are one, by no faith cleft,
By no reason I can show,
Are we of common Love bereft,
Hath pilgrims rapt in throe.