The Echo In The Heart

It's little I can tell
  About the birds in books;
And yet I know them well,
  By their music and their looks:
  When May comes down the lane,
  Her airy lovers throng
  To welcome her with song,
  And follow in her train:
  Each minstrel weaves his part
  In that wild-flowery strain,
  And I know them all again
  By their echo in my heart.
It's little that I care
  About my darling's place
In books of beauty rare,
  Or heraldries of race:
  For when she steps in view,
  It matters not to me
  What her sweet type may be,
  Of woman, old or new.
  I can't explain the art,
  But I know her for my own,
  Because her lightest tone
  Wakes an echo in my heart.