Lightly come or lightly go:
Though thy heart presage thee woe,
Vales and many a wasted sun,
Oread let thy laughter run,
Till the irreverent mountain air
Ripple all thy flying hair.

Lightly, lightly -- - ever so:
Clouds that wrap the vales below
At the hour of evenstar
Lowliest attendants are;
Love and laughter song-confessed
When the heart is heaviest.

Now I'm high and high poetry works really well, as per experience so here we go.

Music always helps me when I write
I just let it take me somewhere.
I'm here now.

I don't know where exactly "here" is, but I like it here.
Nothing matters in the land where the music comes from.
Everyone is free the experience whatever they want to without fear of being judged by anyone because all anybody cares about is how the music makes them feel and the journey that they are on.

And then sometimes you meet that one person that shares a moment with you on your journey.
Someone that has the same experience as you when you hear that cry of the creature of the land that music comes from.
And they are the most beautiful person in the world to you at that moment.
You would do anything for them
In that moment.

And then as soon as the creature of the land where music comes from opens it's mouth to sing that beautiful song that brought you two together he closes it and they disappear.
        
Forever.

Because nobody ever feels the same way about a song twice.
There is always something different the next time.

You're never different.

When our sweat dries
          You light your cigarette
                   After I meet your needs.
Will I be like
          The curling smoke
                  You let disappear into the air?

The noon's greygolden meshes make
All night a veil,
The shorelamps in the sleeping lake
Laburnum tendrils trail.

The sly reeds whisper to the night
A name-- her name-
And all my soul is a delight,
A swoon of shame.

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

How heavy the days are.
There's not a fire that can warm me,
Not a sun to laugh with me,
Everything bare,
Everything cold and merciless,
And even the beloved, clear
Stars look desolately down,
Since I learned in my heart that
Love can die.

Death stands above me, whispering low
I know not what into my ear:
Of his strange language all I know
Is, there is not a word of fear.

IN the Shenandoah Valley, one rider gray and one rider blue, and the sun on the riders wondering.

Piled in the Shenandoah, riders blue and riders gray, piled with shovels, one and another, dust in the Shenandoah taking them quicker than mothers take children done with play.

The blue nobody remembers, the gray nobody remembers, it's all old and old nowadays in the Shenandoah..    .    .
And all is young, a butter of dandelions slung on the turf, climbing blue flowers of the wishing woodlands wondering: a midnight purple violet claims the sun among old heads, among old dreams of repeating heads of a rider blue and a rider gray in the Shenandoah.