by Frank Dempster Sherman
Within the meadow of Time's book
Let my song be the laughing brook
That sings along its silver way
As't were a dryad gone astray,
Seeking by music's balm to bless
The hunger of its loneliness.
Let all my lines like ripples run
Forever mirroring the sun;
Gay as the light lisp of a leaf,
Unmarred by any gust of grief;
Sweet as the soft south wind that blows
Its tender love-song to the rose.
So, later, if my rhymes be read
By maid or youth, it may be said:
No melancholy strain he knew;
His skies were always bright and blue.
Life seemed for him to slip along
As smoothly as his limpid song,
Which, in its grace and simple art,
Echoes the gladness in his heart.
Source:Lyrics For A Lute
Boston and New York, Houghton, Mifflin, and Company