Twine not the cypress round my harp—
It wears too dull a shade for me;
Light as the flowers
Of April bowers,
The wreath that encircles my harp must be.
If you will twine a wreath for me,
Twine it of blooms that vanish soon;
Let each fair hue
Be wet with dew,
But dew that will pass in the smile of noon.
Light is the spirit of my harp—
Twas love and hope first wak'd its strain;
Awhile sorrow's wings
May o'ershadow the strings—
They soon will answer to mirth again.
Oh! were it mine to choose the notes,
That should unto my harp belong,
They should be gay,
As the sky lark's lay,
With one sweet breath of the nightingale's song.