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First Line: What is it here within my breast
Last Line: Love's melodies so rare.
Subject(s): Love


WHAT is it here within my breast
Keeps springing, rushing, flowing?
The sounds both grief and joy suggest,
Like palms in soft winds blowing.

'T is like the lark's exultant strain
In blue spring heavens soaring,
And organ tones in holy fane
Through Christmas incense pouring.

It is a jubilant accord
Of harmonies most fair;
It is -- now I have found the word --
Love's melodies so rare.





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