THE new-born leaves unfolding fast
Make nests of green on every bough;
The pilgrim birds, their wanderings past,
With joy return,—but thou, my love,
Oh, where, my love, art thou?
Soft tumults fill the balmy air,
Faint breathings of the flowers to be;
Life glows and gladdens everywhere,—
But I am lone for thee, my love,
Oh, lone, my love, for thee!
Give me the voice of moaning pines,
The frozen wold, the desert space;
Give me the winter Earth resigns,—
But let me see thy face, my love,
Oh, let me see thy face!