romance

Romance, who loves to nod and sing, with drowsy head and folded wing, among the green leaves as they shake far down within some shadowy lake, to me a painted paroquet hath been — a most familiar bird — taught me my alphabet to say — to lisp my very earliest word while in the wild wood I did lie, a child—with a most knowing eye. Of late, eternal Condor years so shake the very Heaven on high with tumult as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares though gazing on the unquiet sky. And when an hour with calmer wings its down upon my spirit flings — that little time with lyre and rhyme to while away — forbidden things! My heart would feel to be a crime unless it trembled with the strings.