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Let me set my mournful ditty
To a merry measure,
Thou wilt come for pleasure.
I love all that thou lovest,
Spirit of Delight !
And the starry night;
I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;
Every thing almost
I love tranquil solitude,
As is quiet, wise and good;
Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess The things I seek, not love them less.
I love Love - though he has wings,
And like light can flee,
Spirit, I love thee -
Music, when soft voices die,
THE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies; All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies. What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.
Virtue, how frail it is!
Friendship how rare ! Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair ! But we, though soon they fall, Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.
Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay, Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Then wake to weep.
Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
“Do you not hear the Aziola cry?
Said Mary, as we sate
And I, who thought
Asked, “Who is Aziola ?” How elate
And Mary saw my soul, And laughed, and said, “Disquiet yourself not;
'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.”
Sad Aziola ! many an eventide
Thy music I had heard
And fields and marshes wide,
The soul ever stirred;