Soft folded to its sleeping breast
The birds within yon silent grove
Are dreaming that the spring is near —
Sweet Mary, ’tis the hour of love,
And I were blest if thou wert here.
On yon white cloud the night-wind furls
Its lone and dewy wing to sleep,
And the sweet stars look out like pearls
Through the clear waves of heaven’s blue deep;
The pale mists float around, above,