The poem
Overhead the tree-tops meet, Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet; There was nought above me, and nought below, My childhood had not learned to know: For what are the voices of birds —Ay, and of beasts,—but words—our words, Only so much more sweet? The knowledge of that with my life begun! But I had so near made out the sun, And counted your stars, the Seven and One, Like the fingers of my hand: Nay, I could all but understand Wherefore through heaven the white moon ranges, And just when out of her soft fifty changes No unfamiliar face might overlook me— Suddenly God took me!