TO touch a broken lute,
      To strike a jangled string,
    To strive with tones forever mute
      The dear old tunes to sing—
What sadder fate could any heart befall?
Alas! dear child, never to sing at all.

    To sigh for pleasures flown...

Poet: Anonymous

The saddest noise, the sweetest noise,

The maddest noise that grows, —

The birds, they make it in the spring,

At night's delicious close.


Between the March and April line —

That magical frontier

...

Poet: