L'ENVOI HOLD within my hand a lute, A lute that hath not many strings. And singing soars and claps its wings; Sing, little bird; when thou art mute, The music dies within my lute. Sing on, thou little bird, until The space that once was filled with song. DORA GREENWELL. THE SINGER'S PLEA. @HY do I sing? I know not why, my friend; And on those liberal highways nations send And dyes to make a presence-chamber shine. EDWARD DOWDEN. |