Where the skies are ever clear:
The corn-month’s golden hours will come,
But they shall not find thee here.
“And we shall miss thy voice, my bird!
Under our whispering pine;
Music shall midst the leaves be heard,
But not a song like thine.
“A breeze that roves o’er stream and hill,
Telling of winter gone,
Hath such sweet falls—yet caught we still