I Know Not What It Is, But When I Pass Poem by Philip Henry Savage

I know not what it is, but when I pass
Some running bit of water by the way,
A river brimming silver in the grass,
And rippled by a trailing alder-spray,

Hold in my heart I cannot from a cry,
It is so joyful at the merry sight;
So gracious is the water running by,
So full the simple grass is of delight.

And if by chance a redwing, passing near,
Should light beside me in the alder-tree;
And if, above the ripple, I should hear
The lusty conversation of the bee,

I think that I should lift my voice and sing;
I know that I should laugh and look around,
As if to catch the meadows answering,
As if expecting whispers from the ground.