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]