Companions

 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.

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