  To hear her sing—to hear her sing— It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays. It is to hear the robin trill At morning, or the whippoorwill At dusk, when stars are blossoming To hear her sing—to hear her sing! To hear her sing—it is to hear The laugh of childhood ringing clear In woody path or grassy lane Our feet may never fare again. Faint, far away as Memory dwells, It is to hear the village bells At twilight, as the truant hears Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears. Such joy it is to hear her sing, We fall in love with everything— The simple things of every day Grow lovelier than words can say. The idle brooks that purl across The gleaming pebbles and the moss, We love no less than classic streams— The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. To hear her sing—with folded eyes, It is, beneath Venetian skies, To hear the gondoliers' refrain, Or troubadours of sunny Spain.— To hear the bulbul's voice that shook The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: What wonder we in homage bring Our hearts to her—to hear her sing! |
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