The Ideal

I think the song that's sweetest Is the son# that's never sun; That lies in the heart of the sinter Too grand for mortal tong-uu. And sometitnes in the silence Between the day and night, lic fancies that its measures Bid farewell to Üie light. A fairy hand ftom dreainhmd Beckons us herc and thcre, And when we strive to clasp it It vanishts into air. And thus our fair ideal Floats away just before. And we with longing spirits Heach for it evermore.