I was a reed in the stilly stream, Heigh-ho! And thou my fellow of moveless dream, Heigh-lo. Hardly a word the river said, As there we bowed him a listless head: Only the yellowbird pierced the noon; And summer died to a drowsier swoon, Till the little wind of night came by, With the little stars in the lonely sky, And the little leaves that only stir, When shiest wood-fellows confer. It shook the stars in their purple sphere, And laid a frost on the lips of fear. It woke our slumbering desire, As a breath that blows a mellow fire, And the thrill that made the forest start, Was a little sigh from our happy heart. This is the story of the world, Heigh-ho! This is the glory of the world, Heigh-lo. |