What joy at even to hear thee, sweet voice of tenderest love!
How blest, alone to be near thee, thou soft and sorrowing dove!
Thou seemest all sad and forsaken; thy song dies sobbing away:
But yet, as I hear thee, I waken; thou singest of love and of May.

And oft in summer thou sittest, concealed in shadowy pine,
Or where, in loneliest valley, the tangled cedars entwine.
Beneath their shadow reposing, in dim, mysterious light,
I hear thy song, at its closing, like voice of spirit at night.

'T is ever pleasant to hear thee, — I always welcome thy song;
For gentle the feelings thou wakest, — the heart can indulge them long.
A strain of livelier measure may rouse and quicken its play;
But short and fleeting the pleasure, — the gentle only can stay.
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