Companions
Leave not your bough, my slender song—bird sweet,
But pipe me now your roundelay complete.
Come, gentle breeze, and tarrying on your way,
Whisper my trees what you have seen to—day.
Stand, golden cloud, until my song be done,
(For he’s too proud) before the face of the sun.
So one did sing, and the other breathed a story;
Then both took wing, and the sun stepped forth in glory.
