Can I then hope to tear from out my heart the song 'twould tell thee?
Were I to sing to the woodland, 'twould be thy song.
Or should I pipe of happy days when thou wert absent from my life,
Thoud'st creep within the singing and every note be thine.
Or should I make a song unto my saddest season,
Thou still would'st sing, e'en through my sorrowing.
Thou who art but the essence of my song's wine
Hast blossomed long before, within its very grape,
And ripened with my season's heat and cold.
Who then denies that from my first voiced crooning,
Thou hast been the vibrant chord?