Fairy spirits of the breeze—
Frailer nothing is than these.
Fancies born we know not where—
In the heart or in the air;
Wandering echoes blown unsought
From far crystal peaks of thought;
Shadows, fading at the dawn,
Ghosts of feeling dead...
|
National Anthem |
If I might see another Spring |
If all the year was summer time, |
I plucked pink blossoms from mine apple-tree |
They drift down the hall together; |
Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear, |
I have no wit, no words, no tears; |
My heart is like a singing bird |
MORAL.
So, oft in theologic wars |