Who am I but a fool to think of you
me, the last Sparrow to arrive in Spring
no sense and not the slightest single clue
not one, on how to find a key, to sing.

Upon a branch I prance and brag my mantle
as you just tend your dress within a smile.
Upon the ground I swirl and bump and tangle
while you just sit and read and hum a while.

My love, if you bestow on me by grace
the scale, unveiled, by which your hart does play
unfold the score I sense and clearly trace
a tone might grow, that makes you see my way.

So we might tune for us a chord, a noice
a well, that sparkles of our love and voice!