TO A LADY PLAYING AND SINGING IN THE MORNING

Joyful lady, sing!

And I will lurk here listening,

Though nought be done, and nought begun,

And work-hours swift are scurrying.

Sing, O lady, still!

Aye, I will wait each note you trill,

Though duties due that press to do

This whole day long I unfulfil.

“— It is an evening tune;

One not designed to waste the noon,”

You say. I know: time bids me go —

For daytide passes too, too soon!

But let indulgence be,

This once, to my rash ecstasy:

When sounds nowhere that carolled air

My idled morn may comfort me!