The songs they sing to me.

The trees are mine, and the humble flowers

That sigh ’mid the rustling grass,

When steeped in the fragrance of summer showers,

The amorous zephyrs pass.

When the world grows cold, and I turn away

From its fickle and loveless throng,

They nestle around me, and seem to say:

‘We love you, poor child of song!’

They kiss the dust from my weary feet;