In simpler verse than triolets,
— Rondeau, or deft quatrain,
With breath of morning violets
— In every dewy strain,
He sang from overflowing heart
His sweet old songs unspoiled by art.

Progressive years have passed since then —
— The Muse has changed her ways;
No more through flowery mead and glen
— A rustic maid she strays;
Amid the traffic of the town
We catch the flutter of her gown.

But one who knows her virgin grace
— Gives back the songs she sung
And brings with glimpses of her face
— The days when love was young.
O Muse immortal, singer true,
What harmonies unite the two!