 | Poems by John B. Tabb |  |
17
THE LONELY MOUNTAIN.
One bird, that ever with the wakening spring
Was wont to sing,
I wait, through all my woodlands, far and near,
In vain to hear.
Was wont to sing,
I wait, through all my woodlands, far and near,
In vain to hear.
The voice of many waters, silent long
Breaks forth in song;
Young breezes to the listening leaves outpour
Their heavenly lore:
Breaks forth in song;
Young breezes to the listening leaves outpour
Their heavenly lore:
A thousand other wingèd warblers sweet,
Returning, greet
Their fellows, and rebuild upon my breast
The wonted nest.
Returning, greet
Their fellows, and rebuild upon my breast
The wonted nest.
But unto me one fond familiar strain
Comes not again—
A breath whose faintest echo, farthest heard,
A mountain stirred.
Comes not again—
A breath whose faintest echo, farthest heard,
A mountain stirred.
| Poems by John B. Tabb | |