[_In a sort of groan of excessive tenderness._] Coa--

THE BLACKBIRD
That, if you please, is ecstasy!

CHANTECLER
Thy gold is of all gold alone beneficent! I worship thee!

THE PIGEON
[_Under breath._] To whom is he talking?

THE BLACKBIRD
[_Sneering._] To the sun, sonny, the sun!

CHANTECLER
O thou that driest the tears of the meanest among weeds
And dost of a dead flower make a living butterfly--
Thy miracle, wherever almond-trees
Shower down the wind their scented shreds,
Dead petals dancing in a living swarm--
I worship thee, O Sun! whose ample light,
Blessing every forehead, ripening every fruit,
Entering every flower and every hovel,
Pours itself forth and yet is never less,
Still spending and unspent--like mother's love!

I sing of thee, and will be thy high priest,
Who disdainest not to glass thy shining face
In the humble basin of blue suds,
Or see the lightning of thy last farewell