For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

Say, whose is the skill that paints valley and hill,
Like a picture so fair to the sight?
That flecks the green meadow with sunshine and shadow,
Till the little lambs leap with delight?
'Tis a secret untold to hearts cruel and cold,
Though 'tis sung, by the angels above,
In notes that ring clear for the ears that can hear--
And the name of the secret is Love!
For I think it is Love,
For I feel it is Love,
For I'm sure it is nothing but Love!

* * * * *

ANDREW LANG
ENGLAND, 1844-

SCYTHE SONG

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks you know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe
Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the glass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,