Song (“Strike, You Myrtle-Crowned…”)

Strike, you myrtle-crowned boys,
   Ivied maidens, strike together:
Magic lutes are these, whose noise
      Our fingers gather,
   Threaded thrice with golden strings
      From Cupid’s bow;
And the sounds of its sweet voice
   Not air, but little busy things,
      Pinioned with the lightest feather
         Of his wings,
      Rising up at every blow
Round the chords, like flies from roses
   Zephyr-touched; so these light minions
   Hover round, then shut their pinions,
And drop into the air, that closes
Where music’s sweetest sweet reposes.

[Kelsall, 1851]