IDEALS

I would that I could weave a song

As airy and as light,

As are the roundelays that throng

Within my heart to-night.

I would that I might set to tune

The beauty of this hour,

When, like a primrose bud, the moon

Breaks into golden flower.

And all the happy, lilting notes,

Beyond divinest words,

That nestle in the downy throats

Of little sleeping birds,

The breeze-borne scent of mignonette,

That in the garden grows,

Where, strung like pearls, the dew is wet

Upon the briar-rose,

These things it is, whose voices I

Have sought for overlong;

Yet still their cunning tones defy

The artifice of song.