THE singer walks by wood and rill,
By town and stately river,
And varied scenes his vision fill,
And make his pulses quiver.
But when his song comes borne across
On winds from dreamland blowing,
We cannot tell what mystic touch
Has set his chimes a-going.
We hear the robins in his rhyme,
We see the orchards drifted
With crests of bloom that glimmer white
When mists of tears are lifted.
A hundred tunes seem intertwined
To mingle in his singing,
When but a single rose, perhaps,
Has set his fancy winging.