 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
124
TO A SINGER.
Daughter of melody!
The clear soft notes of thy soaring strain
Fall back on my listening heart again
As the first bright drops of the silver rain
On the breast of the quiet sea!
The clear soft notes of thy soaring strain
Fall back on my listening heart again
As the first bright drops of the silver rain
On the breast of the quiet sea!
Child of the seraph strain!
Thou who sweepest my full heart's strings,
Thou who unbindest my spirit's wings,
Scattering the sorrow that round them clings,
Sing to me once again!
Thou who sweepest my full heart's strings,
Thou who unbindest my spirit's wings,
Scattering the sorrow that round them clings,
Sing to me once again!
Daughter of music, come!
Come once more with thy witching song
Trembling my rapt soul's chords along,
Till care is forgotten, and grief, and wrong,
Make in my heart thy home!
Come once more with thy witching song
Trembling my rapt soul's chords along,
Till care is forgotten, and grief, and wrong,
Make in my heart thy home!
125
Come, and enraptured long
From the first faint gleam of the morning bright,
Till I lose thine eyes' bewildering light
In the gathering shades of approaching night,
I'll listen thy magic song.
From the first faint gleam of the morning bright,
Till I lose thine eyes' bewildering light
In the gathering shades of approaching night,
I'll listen thy magic song.
Thou wert not formed for earth,—
Thou seemest a spirit, who sits and sings
With eyes uplifted and folded wings,—
And pure heart dreaming of holy things,—
Thou art of heavenly birth!
Thou seemest a spirit, who sits and sings
With eyes uplifted and folded wings,—
And pure heart dreaming of holy things,—
Thou art of heavenly birth!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |