But ever, ever, restlessly,
I long to tell the story wild
That rugged peaks to me have told,
When, sitting like a musing child,
The dreamy clouds above me rolled.
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And every tree in forest green
Its message has of sympathy;
And every flower, however mean,
Keeps a sweet fairy-tale for me.
I cannot hear the murmuring
Of breezes in the evening gloom,
Without a wish once more to sing,
Once more to tell of woodland bloom.
I loathe the wretched power of song,
But cannot from its spell be free,
While birds their wild, sweet notes prolong,
And flowers gaze reproachfully.
F. A. T.