But the breeze would play with my book, and plead
For my heart and ear, in a witching song
Which I could not resist, for ’twas never long,
And plaintive as plaintive could be;
So I listened, and sighed
When the sweet breeze died
In the shade of the dark pine-tree.
And there in the quiet I fain would rhyme,
And weave loving lays with a measured chime,
But my thoughts, as wild as the birds, would fly