Oh that a Song would sing itself to me
       &nbsp Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart
       &nbsp Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art,
       &nbspFresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea,
With just enough of bitterness to be
       &nbsp A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start
       &nbsp The life-blood in my veins, and so impart
       &nbsp Healing and help in this dull lethargy!
Alas! not always doth the breath of song
       &nbsp Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth
       &nbsp At its own will, not ours, nor tarries long;
We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth
       &nbsp From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and strong,
       &nbsp Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth.