WHAT is it here within my breast Keeps springing, rushing, flowing? The sounds both grief and joy suggest, Like palms in soft winds blowing. 'T is like the lark's exultant strain In blue spring heavens soaring, And organ tones in holy fane Through Christmas incense pouring. It is a jubilant accord Of harmonies most fair; It is -- now I have found the word -- Love's melodies so rare. |