THE Blackbird now is never done, Sweetheart! O Sweetheart! The Thrush to Love makes orison. Now are the little fowls begun, Sweetheart! O Sweetheart! Housebuilding all till set of sun. Blithe Chanticleer his horn has blown, Sweetheart! O Sweetheart! New iris hath the Dove put on: Call in the softest monotone, Sweetheart! O Sweetheart! It is not good to live alone. The Lark from Heaven drops like a stone, Sweetheart! O Sweetheart! Straight to his lovely love is gone. The Nightingale makes lover's moan, Sweetheart! O Sweetheart! Pressing his breast Love's thorn upon. Each to his dainty feathered one, Sweetheart! O Sweetheart! Singing his lover's Laud and None. |