Like the beautiful songs they sing
At Ballad Concerts; why should I not
Attempt such a simple thing?
This metre's just right. Here goes!—The moon
Shone sad o'er the silvered waves,
The nightingale trilled 'neath that night of June,
Where the river the primrose laves.
(That's good, though hazy the sense may seem,
No primrose would bloom at the time;
The river "laves" it, not it the stream;