BY THE ANNIO.

Here where shallows ripple by,

And the woody banks are high,

Every little wind that frets

Waves the scent of violets;

Here the greening beech has made

Such a palace of cool shade,

You and I would rather sit

Silent in the shade of it,

Seeking questions and replies

Only through each other’ s eyes.

Sweet, than climb the thorny ways

Up their barren hills of praise.

In the gloom of yonder glen

Hides the crimson cyclamen,

And the tall narcissus still

Lingers near the reedy rill,

In the ooze the rushes grow

Pipes for merry lips to blow;

Here the songs that we shall sing

Shall be all of love or spring;

Here the emerald dragon-fly

Flits and stays and passes by,

While the bird that overhead

Mocked our song, grows unafraid,

Splashing till his breast be cool

At the margin of the pool.

In my hand the hand I hold

Lies more daintily than gold;

On your lips is all the praise

I would barter for my lays,

In your eyes I look to see

Witness of my sovereignty.

They that long for high estate

Turn to look for love too late,

Climbing on at last they find

Love has long been left behind;

Sweet, we do not envy these

In our riverland of trees.

Seldom feet of mortals pass

Here along the dewy grass;

Only in the loneliest spot,

Where the woodman enters not,

Spirits of these groves and springs

Make their nightly wanderings.

Never now they walk at day

Since the Satyrs fled away,

Only when the fireflies gleam

Up the winding wooded stream,

You may hear low silver tones,

Like the ripple on the stones,

Asking some familiar star

Where their olden lovers are.

Listen, listen, up above

All the branches sing of love!

When the world is tired of May,

When the springtide fades away,

When the clouds draw over head,

And the moon of love is dead,

When the joy is no more new,

Seek we other work to do!

Only while the heart is young

Let no other song be sung!