And in My Very Life Your Colours Live

March, 1879
by Constance Naden

Ye little birds, that chant your love so loud,
Your careless hearts are not so glad as mine,
For he who sings because the sun doth shine
Is robbed of joy by every murky cloud;
And ye, sweet heralds of the summer crowd
Of unremembered flowers, whose tints combine
To light the meadows—ye grow pale and pine,
When by cold winds your radiant heads are bowed. 

From you, from all fair creatures of the earth,
I do but gain the beauty that I give;
Your form, your music, in my soul have birth,
And in my very life your colours live;
And when the sunlight fades, and ye depart,
I hold your joy within my secret heart.