A-tilt from out thy tune-tipped throat,
To weave faint melodies, afloat,
Or trail low, liquid lengths of song
The dawn along—
Into the roseate, fresh-waked morn—
This song, dew-drenched and lilting borne,
This song, that timid as a dove,
Creeps in my heart—this song I love.
How does my soul of song within me burn
For speech to stay the falt’ring, lute-like turn