17
And my soul burns with wild poetic fire,
Though simple are my strains, and simpler still my lyre.
Though simple are my strains, and simpler still my lyre.
And now, farewell! the wild wind of the mountain
And the blue streams alone my strains have heard;
And it is well, for from my heart's deep fountain
They flow, uncultured, as thine own, sweet bird!
For my free thoughts have ever spurned control,
Since this heart held a wish, and this frail form a soul!
And the blue streams alone my strains have heard;
And it is well, for from my heart's deep fountain
They flow, uncultured, as thine own, sweet bird!
For my free thoughts have ever spurned control,
Since this heart held a wish, and this frail form a soul!
