To mingle with the robins’ cheerful call,
A low, sad voice, as if the hills let fall
Faint, wandering echoes of sweet music hid
In dark ravine, on solitary height.
I dropped my roses, gone their ravishment;
I passed the mowers o’er their harvest bent;
I sought those distant mountain-lands of light.
Wild, thorny brambles stretched across my way,
Sharp rocks were weary pathways for my feet,
Yet ever lured me on those accents sweet