The poem
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.