Melodiously fluting down here in the valleys
Goes sweetly and fleetly
Thy song of the year;
There's a note for the mountain's
Clear, nymph-beloved chalice,
Though soft music dallies
As pleadingly here
Where mossy-brimmed fountains
Their violets rear.

Beside the brown village, where waters lie stillest,
Thou singest and bringest
The gods to my ken;
Thou light with thy laughter
The green hollows fillest,
And whereso thou willest
To wander again,
There must I flee after,
Forgotten of men!

Flee after! And ever I follow and hearken.
Now nearing, now fearing,
Thy mist-mantled form,
Which above in the highlands
But faintly I mark in
The forests that darken
With shadows enorm,
While thy song drops to silence,
My soul unto storm!

Thou Soul of the Singer, thou Heart of the Lover,
Though leading them bleeding
The wearisome race
To heights where they lose thee,
Where Failure doth hover
With darkness above her —
What chance of the chase
Can appall them that choose thee
And seek thy fair face?

Can it be that to labour in quiet returning,
The lowly but holy
Old toil of the plains,
They will find all thy beauty
To answer their yearning
And cool the long burning
That beats in their veins,
Till they know, only Duty
Thy vision retains?