To grieve o'er flowerful faëry.
My Phasian doves are flown so long--
The dream is lovelier than the song!

Ah, though we build a bower of dawn,
The golden-wingèd bird is gone,
And morn may gild, through shimmering leaves,
Only the swallow-twittering eaves.
What art may house or gold prolong
A dream far lovelier than a song?

The lilting witchery, the unrest
Of wingèd dreams, is in our breast;
But ever dear Fulfilment's eyes
Gaze otherward. The long-sought prize,
My lute, must to the gods belong.
The dream is lovelier than the song.




Daniel Webster Davis


'WEH DOWN SOUF

O, de birds ar' sweetly singin',
'Weh down Souf,
An' de banjer is a-ringin',
'Weh down Souf;