Consider how the bards of old had sung
Before their numbers vanished with the years,
And how their harps delighted captive ears
When all the world was green and fancy young;
Or how the meters of an antique tongue
Gave figuration to our hopes and fears,
To passions gravity, to love its tears,
The chords with which our human hearts are strung.
Alas, my song cannot unburthen care
Nor life’s unceasing worriments remove;
And though my lays be lost on empty air,
Yet, days to come shall not these notes reprove,
Whose sweetness imitates a single fair:
The music that is you, my one true love.