IT has no bounds of time or place, —
Heigho, Arcady !
It is a light of transient grace
That shines on field and tree.
Look, Phyllis pirouetting sweet !
(Heigho, dancing bosom!)
I think the primrose from her feet
Breaks to fragrant blossom.
Unto her whistled tune she trips.
(Heigho, follow after!)
I think the goldfinch from her lips
Breaks to wingèd laughter.
The hour stands still at heaven’s height, —
Heigho, Arcady !
It is the glory of the light
Was never on land or sea.
Joseph Russell Taylor.