Canon

Not only in my lady's eyes

Do I her beauty find,

All the lore that poets prize

Is garnered in her mind.

She is the soul of all I sing,

For, though to me belong

The pipe, the shell, the string,

She is the soul of all I sing

And she herself is the song.

There is no wisdom in my word,

No music in my lay,

Save what I've sweetly heard

My lady sing or say.