  I would that 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 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 throats Of little sleeping birds, 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 I Have sought for overlong; Yet still their cunning tones defy The artifice of song.
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