Moods

Oh that a Song would sing itself to me Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art, Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea, With just enough of bitterness to be A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start The life-blood in my veins, and so impart Healing and help in this dull lethargy! Alas! not always doth the breath of song Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth At its own will, not ours, nor tarrieth long; We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and strong, Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth.