 | Poems |  |
36
SONG.
The winds are lulled in perfect sleep,
The slumbering leaves they are not stirred,
And only from his covert deep
The nightingale's sweet note is heard;
He sings and trills, nor waiteth long
Ere from the hazel-copses nigh,
His happy mate her happiest song
Attunes into a sweet reply!
The slumbering leaves they are not stirred,
And only from his covert deep
The nightingale's sweet note is heard;
He sings and trills, nor waiteth long
Ere from the hazel-copses nigh,
His happy mate her happiest song
Attunes into a sweet reply!
So answer, dearest! thou, nor wake
The echoes rudely to my ear,
Or this wild heart I feel will break
At sudden joy, to know thee near;
But softly sing that, through the trees,
Thy voice, before thee on the pad,
May reach me like a plaintive breeze,
And like a sigh that is not sad.
The echoes rudely to my ear,
Or this wild heart I feel will break
At sudden joy, to know thee near;
But softly sing that, through the trees,
Thy voice, before thee on the pad,
May reach me like a plaintive breeze,
And like a sigh that is not sad.
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