  IT was with doubt and trembling I whispered in her ear. Go, take her answer, bird-on-bough, That all the world may hear— Sweetheart, sigh no more! Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, Upon the wayside tree, How fair she is, how true she is, How dear she is to me— Sweetheart, sigh no more! Sing it, sing it, tawny throat, And through the summer long The winds among the clover-tops, And brooks, for all their silvery stops, Shall envy you the song— Sweetheart, sigh no more! |
|
