A Love-Song by a Lunatic
There’s not a spider in the sky,
There’s not a glowworm in the sea,
There’s not a crab that soars on high,
But bids me dream, dear maid, of thee!
When watery Phoebus ploughs the main,
When fiery Luna gilds the lea,
As flies run up the window-pane,
So fly my thoughts, dear love, to thee!
Anonymous.