Out of my soul's great sadness
Severin Warteresiewicz
Out of my soul's great sadness
My little songs come winging;
Like wee, feathered birds a-singing
They fly to her heart in gladness.
They found her, and round her hover'd,
And now they're come back, and they scold me,
And yet not a songlet has told me
What they in her heart discovered.