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The song that I once dreamed about
The tender touching thing,
As radiant as the rose without,
the love of wind and wing;
The perfect verses, to the tune
Of woodland music set,
As beautiful as Roman moons,
Remain unwritten yet.
It is too late to write them now
The ancient fire is cold;
No ardent thought does light the brow
As in the days of old...
I cannot pen the dream again
In darkest hours supreme,
But with songs of land and sea,
An echo comes to me...
No longer doth the earth reveal
Her gracious green and gold;
I sit where light was once, and feel
That I am growing cold.
The lustre from the face of things
Is wearing all away;
Like one who halts with tired sad wings
I'll rest my Muse today.
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12,346 strti.
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