Come, essay a sprightly measure,
Tuned to some light song of pleasure.
Maidens, let your brows be crowned
As we foot this merry round.
...
Read full text
Who shall say it? Who may know it, That the clod is not a poet Waiting but a gleam to waken In a spirit music-shaken?
My favorite lines want to dance and sing: When the year, itself renewing, All the world with flowers is strewing, Then through Youth's Arcadian land, Love and song go hand in hand.