And scarce the sunshine visits me,
Save when a light wind rifts the leaves.
A nightingale sings on a spray,
Through the sweet summer time night-long,
And evening travelers, on their way,
Linger to hear her plaintive song.
Thou maiden with the yellow hair,
The winds of life are sharpened chill,
Will thou not seek a shelter there,
In yon lone cottage by the hill?