With the first blush of morning, my soul is awing, Away o'er the phantom lands free, wandering, I seek thee in hamlet, in woodland, and hall, Till night-shades, enfolding my tired heart, fall. Yet ever and alway, like the thrush in a tree, My heart lifts its preluding love-song to thee; I call through the days, through the long weary years, And slumber at night-fall, refreshed by my tears. |