For Ever, Since My Childish Looks Could Rest On Nature'S Pictured Books; For Ever, Since My Childish Tongue Could Name The Themes Our Bards Have Sung; So Long, The Sweetness Of Their Singing Hath Been To Me A Rapture Bringing! Yet Ask Me Not The Reason Why I Have Delight In Minstrelsy. I Know That Much Whereof I Sing, Is Shapen But For Vanishing; I Know That Summer'S Flower And Leaf And Shine And Shade Are Very Brief, And That The Heart They Brighten, May, Before Them All, Be Sheathed In Clay! I Do Not Know The Reason Why I Have Delight In Minstrelsy. A Few There Are, Whose Smile And Praise My Minstrel Hope, Would Kindly Raise: But, Of Those Few, Death May Impress The Lips Of Some With Silentness; While Some May Friendship'S Faith Resign, And Heed No More A Song Of Mine. Ask Not, Ask Not The Reason Why I Have Delight In Minstrelsy. The Sweetest Song That Minstrels Sing, Will Charm Not Joy To Tarrying; The Greenest Bay That Earth Can Grow, Will Shelter Not In Burning Woe; A Thousand Voices Will Not Cheer, When One Is Mute That Aye Is Dear! Is There, Alas! No Reason Why I Have Delight In Minstrelsy. I Do Not Know! The Turf Is Green Beneath The Rain'S Fast-Dropping Sheen, Yet Asks Not Why That Deeper Hue Doth All Its Tender Leaves Renew; And I, Like-Minded, Am Content, While Music To My Soul Is Sent, To Question Not The Reason Why I Have Delight In Minstrelsy. Years Pass, My Life With Them Shall Pass: And Soon, The Cricket In The Grass And Summer Bird, Shall Louder Sing Than She Who Owns A Minstrel'S String. Oh Then May Some, The Dear And Few, Recall Her Love, Whose Truth They Knew; When All Forget To Question Why She Had Delight In Minstrelsy!