A Singer

 That which he did not feel, he would not sing; 
What most he felt, religion it was to hide 
In a dumb darkling grotto, where the spring 
Of tremulous tears, arising unespied, 
Became a holy well that durst not glide 
Into the day with moil or murmuring; 
Whereto, as if to some unlawful thing, 
He sto]e, musing or praying at its side.
 

But in the sun he sang with cheerful heart, 
Of coloured season and the whirling sphere, 
Warm household habitude and human mirth, 
The whole faith-blooded mystery of earth; 
And I, who had his secret, still could hear 
The grotto's whisper low through every part.

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