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No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep –
But the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keep –
The sound of the rain,
Which leaps down to the flower –
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower –
[1]The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things –
But are modell'd, alas! –
Away, then, my dearest,
Oh! hie thee away
To the springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray –
- ↑ I met with this idea in an old English tale, which I am now unable to obtain and quote from memory:– "The verie essence and, as it were, springe-heade, and origine of all musiche is the verie pleasaunte sounde which the trees of the forest do make when they growe."
