My Soul! 'Tis a beaker of wine, And the bubbles that flash to the brim, Are the nameless, wild songs of mine, And the ruby is sparkling with them.
Ah! The beaker is sparkling and brimming!-- We die, but there's life in the bowl, While the bubbles are rising and swimming-- Camerado, I pledge thee my soul!
Ah Music! Whisper to my love, Some golden fancy of thy clime-- Some glorious sound, To breath around, A sweetness, sweeter than my rhime, Of sweet breath thime In orange grove, When she may rove, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her.
Ah Beauty! Whisper to my love, Some glorious fervor of thy being, On golden sands Of Orient strands; By limpid lakes where she is fleeing, And there is seeing The classic grace Of her proud race, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her.
Ah Pleasure! Whisper to my love, Some happiness as sweet as thine, When wild bee sips The honey drips, In early May. And lowing kine, In dreamy line, Have led her feet To the pastures sweet, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there, around, above her, To tell her that I love her.
Sweet trine! Oh! whisper to my love, Such wildest pleasures thou hast known, Of lake or strand, Or flow'ry land, In happy regions all thine own; Of dreamy zone, Where all day long, Hast sung her song, As wild and free, As the Dryads be, That circle there around, above her, To tell her that I love her.
Oh! Soul of balsam calm, sweet rural scene! Thy spirit hand hath led me back again, By pebbly paths, to mossy couches green, And where the glowworm and the moth have lain, To lie and dream! Or on some warm and soothing rock, Supine, to watch the white clouds flee and flock, On everchanging wings, Of childhood's sweet imaginings. Or seeking out some shadowy stream, Where playful fishes flash and gleam, and vanish, A wild thing too, dull leaden footed care to banish, How I would seem!
Along the smoky autumn afternoon, Where fall the brown leaves, wandring aimlessly, What song of forest pine, what wild bird's tune, Hath waked me not to life, but still to be A spirit wild! To cut me from the hickory bough, A whistle piping music sweet enow, And on the swinging vine, As free as Bacchus, munch the wine, From purple festoons undefiled; Or with the wild winds sport from hill to hill, As happy as the dewy balm they drink and spill,-- Their nameless child.