Give me the chance, and I will make

Thy thoughts of me, like worms this day,

Take wings and change to butterflies

That in the golden light shall play;

Thy cold, clear heart--the quiet pool

That never heard Love's nightingale--

Shall hear his music night and day,

And in no seasons shall it fail.

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I'll make thy happy heart my port,

Where all my thoughts are anchored fast;

Thy meditations, full of praise,
The flags of glory on each mast.
I'll make my Soul thy shepherd soon,

With all thy thoughts my grateful flock;

And thou shalt say, each time I go--

How long, my Love, ere thou'lt come back?

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- W.H. Davies

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c. 4 minutes