I am the chorale of the wistful songbird
Carried by the sirocco wind
Echoed amidst the mirthful gale
Should her soft voice gently bend.
I am the laughter of the jubilant frog
Reflected by his many kin
A lyre to fill the squalid bog
And his lady's true heart win.
I am the babbling of the brook
Whose conversation has yet to be discerned
Told not by eyes nor ears nor mouth
But by the waters, which gently churn.
I am the ancient tree on the ridge
And the sylvan wood beside
And the vines betwixt and tangled there
Where many a creature reside.
I am the murmur of the mouse's heart
And the tears of the dapper clouds
But no one's yet heard my true name
For it's never yet been spoken aloud.
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