The scented buds invite us;
The young red deer will gambol there,
And a thousand songs delight us.
Thy hand in mine, and mine in thine,
In the wood-path we will linger,
Where the dew is bright on the eglantine,
As the jewel on thy finger.
Let us go to the moor and the virgin lake —
I hear the call of the plover;
And the fisherman’s song comes over the brake,