I would that I could weave a song
As airy and as light,
As are the roundelays that throng
Within my heart to-night.
I would that I might set to tune
The beauty of this hour,
When, like a primrose bud, the moon
Breaks into golden flower.
And all the happy, lilting notes,
Beyond divinest words,
That nestle in the downy throats
Of little sleeping birds,
The breeze-borne scent of mignonette,
That in the garden grows,
Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wet
Upon the briar-rose,
These things it is, whose voices I
Have sought for overlong;
Yet still their cunning tones defy
The artifice of song.