Where my belovèd’s vineyard lies!
Oh that I were the zephyr fleet
That bends her vines and roses sweet.
I would I were yon cloud so light,—
Yon cloudlet driven before the wind.
Or yonder bird with swift-winged flight:
My heart’s true way I soon would find!
Oh, I would be the wind so fleet
That bends her vines and roses sweet.