These little Songs,
Found here and there, 
Floating in air 
By forest and lea, 
Or hill-side heather, 
In houses and throngs, 
Or down by the sea - 
Have come together, 
How, I can't tell: 
But I know full well 
No witty goose-wing 
On an inkstand begot 'em; 
Remember each place 
And moment of grace, 
In summer or spring, 
Winter or autumn 
By sun, moon, stars, 
Or a coal in the bars, 
In market or church, 
Graveyard or dance, 
When they came without search, 
Were found as by chance. 
A word, a line, 
You may say are mine; 
But the best in the songs, 
Whatever it be, 
To you, and to me, 
And to no one belongs.