No wonder, harp, thou likest well to lie
Thus nestled to her bosom;--so would I!
No wonder thy soft, rapturous undertone,
When her flushed cheek creeps nearer to thine own!
No wonder her white buskin and lithe thigh
Thrill thee from head to heel with half-drawn sigh;
And that whene'er her hands caress thy breast,
Thou sendest forth a shudder of unrest!
No wonder that whene'er thou leanest nearer,
Thou singest ever louder, ever clearer,--
Now laughing, while a smile lights up her lips,
Now weeping, while a tear-drop from her slips;
And then, from very ecstasy, again
Breakest to laughter--half delight, half pain,
Which ripples to each listener and awakes
That boyhood glee that Time too soon o'ertakes,--
But then, like all our glee, before it flies
Strikes on the thorn beneath the rose, and dies.
No wonder, passionate harp, thou lov'st to lie
Half buried on her bosom;--so would I!
