The nightingale pours forth her secret boon,
Whose strains the lonely traveller accost;
He sees his dear one's golden tresses tossed,
And time forgets in love's entrancing swoon;
And the orphaned mother who has grieved in vain
Upon the tomb looks to the silent skies
And feels their white light on her sorrow shine;
Meanwhile the mountains laugh, and the far-off main,
And through the lofty trees a fresh wind sighs:
Such is thy verse to me, Poet divine!