It seems very strange and eerie, you know;
I don't understand how it is—do you?
But a philosopher said it, so
I really suppose that it must be true.
And is not there something in human hearts
(Mountains, you know, must spring out of the flat)
That at Love's light touch into music starts?
Ah, what would philosophers say to that?
There never was summer so bright as this,
And the world will always be burnished thus;