Over the mountain-growths disease and sorrow,
An uncaught bird is ever hovering, hovering,
High in the purer, happier air.
From imperfection`s murkiest cloud,
Darts always forth one ray of perfect light,
One flash of heaven`s glory.
To fashion`s, custom`s discord,
To the mad Babel-din, the deafening orgies,
Soothing each lull a strain is heard, just heard,
From some far shore the final chorus sounding.
O the blest eyes, the happy hearts,
That see, that know the guiding thread so fine,
Along the mighty labyrinth.
Walt Whitman, "Song of the Universal," Birds of Passage