THE SOUL TO THE IDEAL.

I will not hear thy music sweet! If I should listen, then I know I should no more know friend from foe, But follow thy capricious feet— Thy wings, than mine so much more fleet— I will not go!

I will not go away! Away From reeds and pool why should I go To where sun burns, and hot winds blow? Here sleeps cool twilight all the day; Do I not love thy tune? No, no! I will not say!

I will not say I love thy tune; I do not know if so it be; It surely is enough for me To know I love cool rest at noon, Spread thy bright wings—ah, go—go soon! I will not see!

I will not see thy gleaming wings, I will not hear thy music clear. It is not love I feel, but fear; I love the song the marsh-frog sings, But thine, which after-sorrow brings, I will not hear!