Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - Moods lyrics

Oh that a Song would sing itself to me   Out of the heart of Nature, or the heart   Of man, the child of Nature, not of Art,  Fresh as the morning, salt as the salt sea, With just enough of bitterness to be   A medicine to this sluggish mood, and start   The life-blood in my veins, and so impart   Healing and help in this dull lethargy! Alas! not always doth the breath of song   Breathe on us. It is like the wind that bloweth   At its own will, not ours, nor tarries long; We hear the sound thereof, but no man knoweth   From whence it comes, so sudden and swift and strong,   Nor whither in its wayward course it goeth.