Like a minstrel softly playing

weaving songs from trembling strings

my lyre is a deftly wielded pen

strumming love, which rapture sings

If melancholy songs should ooze

from the mock-bird’s breaking heart

my harp of gladness staunches them

wooing with this wondrous art

Then beneath my lady’s balcony

drenched with teary dews, I kneel

among banks of bud and flowers

blossoming with the love I feel

With her heart I am enchanted

and the tenderness it brings

My pen has no choice but to write

of love, which rapture sings

Copyright ©2004 Anthony Hall