And each thought made a sound: and some the lark
Took for his song—the gayest did he take—
But I for mine took sombre ones, to make
A mournful wail for my lost love, but while
I sang I did forget my grief and smile.
And then the sweetness of the tunes I made
Thrilled me, and sorrow vanished and I played
Enraptured, with the sounds that charmed me best;
And I made songs for pleasure, while the West
Crimsoned behind the dark, enchanted woods.