Song

The birds of the air, they sing it, Round the rim of the world they ring it; The bees in the blossom-bell, They tell, they tell. No; birds in the air, none sing it, For the rift of the dawn none ring it; Noon bees in the blossom-bell, None tell, none tell. I say it over and over,⁠— There is none can speak for a lover; But oh, ere the roses go, Her heart will know!