To C. W. A., of Taylorsville.
OH minstrel of the magic lyre, thy soul
Is full of fancies high and beautiful.
I ne'er have seen thee, yet thy gentle thoughts
And fairy dreams have wakened in my heart,
A feeling so delicious, so divine,
So soft, so dreamy, earnest and intense,
That I have called it love. Oh yes, 'tis love,
High spirit-love, my young soul feels for thine
A sweet emotion, fluttering in my breast,
With not one tinge of earth upon its pure
And bright ethereal plumage.
Is full of fancies high and beautiful.
I ne'er have seen thee, yet thy gentle thoughts
And fairy dreams have wakened in my heart,
A feeling so delicious, so divine,
So soft, so dreamy, earnest and intense,
That I have called it love. Oh yes, 'tis love,
High spirit-love, my young soul feels for thine
A sweet emotion, fluttering in my breast,
With not one tinge of earth upon its pure
And bright ethereal plumage.
Minstrel, oft,
Full oft, at twilight's calm and holy time,
I've mused upon thy wild enchanting lays
Full oft, at twilight's calm and holy time,
I've mused upon thy wild enchanting lays
