| Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900. |
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| 1086. Joy of the Morning |
| | | By Edwin Markham |
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| I HEAR you, little bird, | |
| Shouting a-swing above the broken wall. | |
| Shout louder yet: no song can tell it all. | |
| Sing to my soul in the deep, still wood: | |
| ’T is wonderful beyond the wildest word: | 5 |
| I ’d tell it, too, if I could. | |
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| Oft when the white still dawn | |
| Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, | |
| I ’ve felt it like a glory in my heart, | |
| (The world’s mysterious stir) | 10 |
| But had no throat like yours, my bird, | |
| Nor such a listener. | |
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