Quite True

When the spring returns with the sun’s sweet light,
The flowers then bud and blossom apace;
When the moon begins her radiant race,
Then the stars swim after her track so bright.
When the minstrel sees two beautiful eyes,
Then songs from his inmost bosom arise;--
But songs and stars and flowerets gay,
And eyes and moonbeams and sun’s bright ray,
However delightful they are,
Don’t make up the world, friend, by far.