1

The water elder is in flower,
The woods are all in green;
The dark oak forms a shady bower,
And lovely is the scene.

2

The wild flower of the summer fields,
Clothes every swelling hill;
And angels voices seem to shield,
In murmurs of the rill,

3

That whimpers o'er its winding source,
As clear as morning showers,
Where grass and weeds grow rank and coarse;
And crouds of watered flowers.

4

The fallen oak stripped of its bark,
In the wood valley lies;
Where dropping down the woodland lark,
Sings summer melodies