That rolleth away like the surges of time;
But, to quicken my thoughts and to sweeten my rhyme,
She always played soft airs for me.
Faint whispers that blend with the deep forest’s sound,
From which a wild fawn would not flee,
And sweet as the brook that the summer has found,
When singing its song soft and glad underground,
And carrying its heart to the sea....
A movement then mingles like those that are heard
When the trees toss their shade to the eaves;