Though now it were madness to cherish
The dream that enchained us so long,
Yet shall it not utterly perish,
For thou hast embalmed it in song:
Its story's exquisite revealing
Shall live on the lips of the young;
Each change of its passionate feeling
Be gayly or mournfully sung.

Like honey-dew dropping on blossoms,
On hearts thy sweet numbers shall fall;
Thy lays shall thrill desolate bosoms,
And tenderest visions recall;
Now wild, like the rapturous greeting
That song-birds send down from above;
Now sad, like the tremulous beating
Of hearts that are breaking with love.