In turn, for song the old man prayed:
I glanced around; but none was near:
With veil drawn tighter, I obeyed.
“Were I a vine, and he were heaven,”
I sang, “I'd spread a vernal leaf
To meet the beams of morn and even,
And think the April day too brief.
“Were he I love a cloud, not heaven,
I'd spread my leaf and drink the rain;
Warm summer shower, and dews of even