Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — Moods

Oh that a Song would sing itself to me        &nbsp Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart        &nbsp Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art,        &nbspFresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea, With just enough of bitterness to be        &nbsp A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start        &nbsp The life-blood in my veins, and so impart        &nbsp Healing and help in this dull lethargy! Alas! not always doth the breath of song        &nbsp Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth        &nbsp At its own will, not ours, nor tarries long; We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth        &nbsp From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and strong,        &nbsp Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth.