To the flowers below the blythe bee is coming!—
When the rivulet coy, and ashamed to be seen,
Is heard where it hides ’mong the grass-blades green,
When the light of the moon and each sweet starry islet
Gives a charm more divine to the long summer twilight,
When the breeze o’er the blossomy hawthorn comes cheerful,
’Tis pleasant—with heart—ah, how happy!—tho’ fearful,
With heaven-beaming eyes, where tears come, while smiles glisten
To the lover’s low vows in the silence to listen!
’Tis pleasant too, on a fine spring day