I make not songs, but only find:—
Love, following still the circling sun,
His carols casts on every wind,
And other singer is there none!
I follow Love, though far he flies;
I sing his song, at random found
Like plume some bird of Paradise
Drops, passing, on our dusky bound.
In some, methinks, at times there glows
The passion of a heavenlier sphere:
These, too, I sing:—but sweetest those
I dare not sing, and faintly hear.