Talk not, my Lord, of unrequited love, Since love requites itself most royally. Do we not live but by the sun above, And takes he any heed of thee or me?
Just in the hush before dawn A little wistful wind is born. A little chilly errant breeze, That thrills the grasses, stirs the trees. And, as it wanders on its way, While yet the night is cool and dark,...