Implores this eye of mine.
As the fire that burns in autumn,
Burns this heart of mine;
As the bird that comes in autumn,
Mourns this eye of mine.
Improvised or not, these songs are not only of the individual lover, but of the artist, the bard, still close to his throng, to be sure, but with a clear notion of his dignity and a good care for his singing-robes. As one of these bards, though in another tribe,[[485]] prettily puts it:—
When the wind blows from the right hand,
Bends and bows the poplar;
When I sit and sing,
May there follow thirty songs!