If You Would Happy Company Win, Dangle A Palm-Nut From A Tree, Idly In Green To Sway And Spin, Its Snow-Pulped Kernel For Bait; And See, A Nimble Titmouse Enter In. Out Of Earth'S Vast Unknown Of Air, Out Of All Summer, From Wave To Wave, He'll Perch, And Prank His Feathers Fair, Jangle A Glass-Clear Wildering Stave, And Take His Commons There, This Tiny Son Of Life; This Spright, By Momentary Human Sought, Plume Will His Wing In The Dappling Light, Clash Timbrel Shrill And Gay, And Into Time'S Enormous Nought, Sweet-Fed, Will Flit Away.