Sylvia’s Song
T
he streams that wind amid the hills
And lost in pleasure slowly roam,
While their deep joy the valley fills,—
Even these will leave their mountain home;
So may it, Love! with others be,
But I will never wend from thee.
The leaf forsakes the parent spray,
The blossom quits the stem as fast;
The rose-enamour’d bird will stray
And leave his eglantine at last:
So may it, Love! with others be,
But I will never wend from thee.