These little Songs, Found here and there, Floating in air By forest and lea, Or hill-side heather, In houses and throngs, Or down by the sea - Have come together, How, I can't tell: But I know full well No witty goose-wing On an inkstand begot 'em; Remember each place And moment of grace, In summer or spring, Winter or autumn By sun, moon, stars, Or a coal in the bars, In market or church, Graveyard or dance, When they came without search, Were found as by chance. A word, a line, You may say are mine; But the best in the songs, Whatever it be, To you, and to me, And to no one belongs.