Wanted — A Theme
THE spring is here again, mother! she bursts upon our sight,
Like a young girl in her bridal dress, all bloom, and love, and light;
The birds from out the sunny South, Heaven-guided, hither come;
And earth is very fair, mother, far round our cottage home.
A spell is on my heart, mother, a deep, mysterious spell;
I feel the mighty tide of song within my spirit swell!
Then find for me a theme, mother, a theme to write upon,
Ere breaks that spell, and ere that tide has ebbed away and gone.
I Could write of the fields, mother, the dark and waving woods,
The bursting flowers, the clinging vines, the water falls and floods;
But then the world would say, mother, although 't were done up neat,
That I was in a beaten track, a-following that Street.
I might weave lays like rose-wreaths, mother, and fling them left and right,
All odorous with the breath of love, and glowing with its light;
But though 't were all a sham, mother, wise ones their heads would shake,
And they'd say I was in love, mother, which were a sad mistake.
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