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!
