Yea, idly sing or silent dreàm;
My harp, my hand is yours, but I—
My soul moves down that sounding stream.
Adieu, dun, mighty stream, adieu!
Adown thine wooded walls, inwrought
With rose of Cherokee and vine,
Was never heard a minstrel's note,
And none would heed a song of mine.
I find expression for my thought
In other themes.... List! I have seen