Listening by Gilbert Parker

I have lain beneath the pine trees just to hear the thrush's calling, / I have waited for the throstle where the harvest fields were brown, / I have caught the lark's sweet trilling from the depths of cloud-land falling / And the piping of the linnet through the willow branches blown.

But you have some singing graces, you who sing because you love it, / That are higher than the throstle, or the linnet, or the lark; / And, however far my soul may reach, your song is far above it; / And I falter while I follow as a child does in the dark.