Minstrelsy

For ever, since my childish looks     Could rest on Nature's pictured books;     For ever, since my childish tongue     Could name the themes our bards have sung;     So long, the sweetness of their singing     Hath been to me a rapture bringing!     Yet ask me not the reason why     I have delight in minstrelsy.     I know that much whereof I sing,     Is shapen but for vanishing;     I know that summer's flower and leaf     And shine and shade are very brief,     And that the heart they brighten, may,     Before them all, be sheathed in clay!     I do not know the reason why     I have delight in minstrelsy.     A few there are, whose smile and praise     My minstrel hope, would kindly raise:     But, of those few, Death may impress     The lips of some with silentness;     While some may friendship's faith resign,     And heed no more a song of mine.     Ask not, ask not the reason why     I have delight in minstrelsy.     The sweetest song that minstrels sing,     Will charm not Joy to tarrying;     The greenest bay that earth can grow,     Will shelter not in burning woe;     A thousand voices will not cheer,     When one is mute that aye is dear!     Is there, alas! no reason why     I have delight in minstrelsy.     I do not know! The turf is green     Beneath the rain's fast-dropping sheen,     Yet asks not why that deeper hue     Doth all its tender leaves renew;     And I, like-minded, am content,     While music to my soul is sent,     To question not the reason why     I have delight in minstrelsy.     Years pass, my life with them shall pass:     And soon, the cricket in the grass     And summer bird, shall louder sing     Than she who owns a minstrel's string.     Oh then may some, the dear and few,     Recall her love, whose truth they knew;     When all forget to question why     She had delight in minstrelsy!