My dear, your voice is like a flowing brook,
And I would always have you sing for me,
Because I never want you out of key –
More like a hero in the proudest book.
Then I would feast my eyes and drink each song,
So long as each be sung with stalwart sound:
A lay, a solo, canticle, or round,
My favors like spring flowers, born along,
Not to be tired by a golden taste
As rich as love and deep as passion’s hue,
And clearer than a fjord or morning dew,
Rather than plain; those lips weren’t born for waste!
Clear water give, then I will praise your name,
To heaven’s host, like birds or dogs: quite tame.