Leave not your bough, my slender song-bird sweet, 
But pipe me now your roundelay complete. 

Come, gentle breeze, and tarrying on your way, 
Whisper my trees what you have seen to-day. 

Stand, golden cloud, until my song be done,
(For he?s too proud) before the face of the sun. 

So one did sing, and the other breathed a story; 
Then both took wing, and the sun stepped forth in glory.