 | Ailes d'Alouette |  |
10
BONA DEA
No
daughters of thine,
Dear Mother, were they,
The Muses nine
Of an ancient day.
They smote on lyre,
They wrote with pen,
They spake no higher
Than the speech of men.
Dear Mother, were they,
The Muses nine
Of an ancient day.
They smote on lyre,
They wrote with pen,
They spake no higher
Than the speech of men.
Not these I serve
By wood and stream,
Where the waters curve
And the summits gleam.
No voice I hear,
Nor vision see,
But a soul draws near
To the soul in me.
By wood and stream,
Where the waters curve
And the summits gleam.
No voice I hear,
Nor vision see,
But a soul draws near
To the soul in me.
| Ailes d'Alouette | |