Many a Mickle

A little sound—

Only a little, a little—

The breath in a reed,

A trembling fiddle;

A trumpet's ring,

The shuddering drum;

So all the glory, bravery, hush

Of music come.

A little sound—

Only a stir and a sigh

Of each green leaf

Its fluttering neighbor by;

Oak on to oak,

The wide dark forest through—

So o'er the watery wheeling world

The night winds go.

A little sound,

Only a little, a little—

The thin high drone

Of the simmering kettle,

The gathering frost,

The click of needle and thread;

Mother, the fading wall, the dream,

The drowsy bed.