How are songs begot and bred?
How do golden measures flow?
From the heart, or from the head?
Happy Poet, let me know.
Tell me first how folded flowers
Bud and bloom in vernal bowers;
How the south wind shapes its tune,—
The harper, he, of June.
None may answer, none may know;
Winds and flowers come and go
And the self-same canons bind
Nature and the Poet's mind.
