IDEALS
I wouldthat I could weave a songAs airy and as light,As are the roundelays that throngWithin my heart to-night.I would that I might set to tuneThe beauty of this hour,When, like a primrose bud, the moonBreaks into golden flower.And all the happy, lilting notes,Beyond divinest words,That nestle in the downy throatsOf little sleeping birds,The breeze-borne scent of mignonette,That in the garden grows,Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wetUpon the briar-rose,These things it is, whose voices IHave sought for overlong;Yet still their cunning tones defyThe artifice of song.
I wouldthat I could weave a songAs airy and as light,As are the roundelays that throngWithin my heart to-night.I would that I might set to tuneThe beauty of this hour,When, like a primrose bud, the moonBreaks into golden flower.And all the happy, lilting notes,Beyond divinest words,That nestle in the downy throatsOf little sleeping birds,The breeze-borne scent of mignonette,That in the garden grows,Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wetUpon the briar-rose,These things it is, whose voices IHave sought for overlong;Yet still their cunning tones defyThe artifice of song.
I wouldthat I could weave a songAs airy and as light,As are the roundelays that throngWithin my heart to-night.
I wouldthat I could weave a song
As airy and as light,
As are the roundelays that throng
Within my heart to-night.
I would that I might set to tuneThe beauty of this hour,When, like a primrose bud, the moonBreaks into golden flower.
I would that I might set to tune
The beauty of this hour,
When, like a primrose bud, the moon
Breaks into golden flower.
And all the happy, lilting notes,Beyond divinest words,That nestle in the downy throatsOf little sleeping birds,
And all the happy, lilting notes,
Beyond divinest words,
That nestle in the downy throats
Of little sleeping birds,
The breeze-borne scent of mignonette,That in the garden grows,Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wetUpon the briar-rose,
The breeze-borne scent of mignonette,
That in the garden grows,
Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wet
Upon the briar-rose,
These things it is, whose voices IHave sought for overlong;Yet still their cunning tones defyThe artifice of song.
These things it is, whose voices I
Have sought for overlong;
Yet still their cunning tones defy
The artifice of song.