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In sight of the SpiresAll alive with the firesOf the Sun going down to his rest,In the broad open eye of the solitary sky,They dance,—there are three, as jocund as free,While they dance on the calm river's breast.
Man and Maidens wheel,They themselves make the Reel,And their Music's a prey which they seize;It plays not for them,—what matter! 'tis their's;And if they had care it has scattered their cares,While they dance, crying, "Long as ye please!"
They dance not for me,Yet mine is their glee!Thus pleasure is spread through the earthIn stray gifts to be claim'd by whoever shall find;Thus a rich loving-kindness, redundantly kind,Moves all nature to gladness and mirth.
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