 | The coming of love |  |
THE LARK RISING FROM THE HAY-FIELD.
Birds of the Dell, the veils of morn are shaking!And see the face of her, ye loving birds,
Who knew your songs—who gave them human words
In those sweet mornings when her breath would mingle
With breath of flowers, and all the dewy Dingle
Greeted the Spirit of the Sunrise waking;
Ye birds who saw her buried—ye who know
But cannot utter where she lies below—
Can never tell yon mourner, for the spell
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The man whose heart is breaking!
| The coming of love | |