When the mild, rosy beam of the morning I see,
I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!
I’ll think of thee, love, when the first sound of day
Scares the bright-pinioned bird from its covert away;
For the world’s busy voice has no music for me—
I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!
I’ll think of thee, love, when the dark shadows sleep
On the billows that roll o’er the emerald deep:
Like the swift-speeding gales, every thought then will be—
I’ll think of thee, dearest, and only of thee!