Leave not your bough, my slender song-bird sweet, But pipe me now your roundelay complete. Come, gentle breeze, and tarrying on your way, Whisper my trees what you have seen to-day. Stand, golden cloud, until my song be done, (For he?s too proud) before the face of the sun. So one did sing, and the other breathed a story; Then both took wing, and the sun stepped forth in glory.