Oft in the misty spring
The vapors roll o'er Mount Mikash's crest,
While, pausing not to rest,
The birds each morn with plaintive note do sing.
Like to the mists of spring
My heart is rent; for, like the song of birds,
Still all unanswered ring
The tender accents of my passionate words.
I call her ev'ry day
Till daylight fades away;
I call her ev'ry night
Till dawn restores the light;—
But my fond prayers are all too weak to bring
My darling back to sight.