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to estelle.
The whispering winds in the forest boughs,
Have for thee a mystic tone,
And the green arcades, and the leafy glades,
Speak to thy heart alone.
Have for thee a mystic tone,
And the green arcades, and the leafy glades,
Speak to thy heart alone.
Thou lovest the wild bird's mellow note,
When he carols his morning hymn,
And the dew-drop that lies on the violet's breast,
Or jewels the lily's brim:
Thou weavest a tissue all fair and bright,
To color the humblest things,
For a world lies hidden within thy heart,
Where ever sweet fancy springs;
A world, where dwelleth in rainbow hues
The thoughts that in heaven have birth;
Which hover o'er, like the fabled bird,[1]
But touch not this clouded earth.
When he carols his morning hymn,
And the dew-drop that lies on the violet's breast,
Or jewels the lily's brim:
Thou weavest a tissue all fair and bright,
To color the humblest things,
For a world lies hidden within thy heart,
Where ever sweet fancy springs;
A world, where dwelleth in rainbow hues
The thoughts that in heaven have birth;
Which hover o'er, like the fabled bird,[1]
But touch not this clouded earth.
Thou lovest the summer, that gaily flings
Green wreaths upon every bough,
Green wreaths upon every bough,
