Little song I fain would sing,
Why dost thou elude me so?
Like a bird upon the wing,
Sailing high, sailing low,
Yet forever out of reach,
Thou dost vex me beyond measure,
Unallured by prayer or speech,
Waiting thine own time and pleasure!
Well I know thee, tricksy sprite—
I could call thee by thy name;
I have wooed thee day and night,
Yet thou wilt not own my claim.
Hark! thou’rt hovering even now
In the soft still air above me—
Fantasy or dream art thou,
That my heart’s cry cannot move thee?
Little song I never sang,
Thou art sweeter than the strain
That through starry mazes rang,
First-born child of joy and pain.
I shall sing thee not; but surely
From some all-compelling voice
Swelling high, serenely, purely,
I shall hear thee and rejoice!