O day—if I could cup my hands and drink of you, 
And make this shining wonder be 
A part of me! 
O day! O day!
You lift and sway your colors on the sky 
Till I am crushed with beauty. Why is there 
More of reeling sunlit air 
Than I can breathe? Why is there sound 
In silence? Why is a singing wound 
About each hour? 
And perfume when there is no flower? 
O day! O Day! How may I press 
Nearer to loveliness?

^{translated from the German by Jessie Lamont}

Again the woods are odorous, the lark
Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray 
That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark, 
Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.

After long rainy afternoons an hour 
Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings 
Them at the windows in a radiant shower, 
And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.

Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep 
By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies; 
And cradled in the branches, hidden deep 
In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.

Now shall I store my soul with silent beauty, 

     Beauty of drifting clouds and mountain heights, 

Beauty of sun-splashed hills and shadowed forests, 

     Beauty of dawn and dusk and star-swept nights. 

Now shall I fill my heart with quiet music, 

    Song of the wind across the pine-clad hill, 

Song of the rain and, fairer than all music, 

    Call of the thrush when twilight woods are still. 

So shall the days to come be filled with beauty, 

     Bright with the promise caught from eastern skies; 

So shall I see the stars when night is darkest, 

     Still hear the thrush’s song when music dies.