midnight
I love to see him track the street , With his wary eye and active feet ; And I often watch him as he springs , Circling the steeples with easy wings , Till across the dial his shade has pass 'd , And the belfry edge is gained at last . 'T is a bird I love , with its brooding note , And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; There 's a human look in its swelling breast , And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; And I often stop with the fear I feel -- He runs so close to the rapid wheel . `` Whatever is rung on that noisy bell -- Chime of the hour or funeral knell -- The dove in the belfry must hear it well . When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon -- When the sexton cheerily rings for noon -- When the clock strikes clear at morning light -- When the child is waked with ` nine at night ' -- When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air , Filling the spirit with love of prayer -- Whatever tale in the bell is heard , He broods on his folded feet unstirr 'd , Or , rising half in his rounded nest , He takes the time to smooth his breast , Then drops again with filméd eyes , And sleeps as the last vibration dies . `` Sweet bird ! I would that I could be A hermit in the crowd like thee ! With wings to fly to wood and glen .