Our bursting bugles blow apart The gates of cities as we go;
We bring the music of the heart From secret wells in Lillimo'.
We break in music on the morns— Sing of the flower to stirring roots;
Apollo's cry is in the horns, And Hermes' whisper in the flutes.
We come with laughter to the Earth, And lightly stir the heading wheat:
Our God is Poesy and Mirth, And loves the noise of woodland feet.
When dancers beat the air to sound, After the time of yellow sheaves,
He stops to watch the merry round, His pleased face looking through the leaves.
