TO HEAR HER SING

To hear her sing — to hear her sing —

It is to hear the birds of Spring

In dewy groves on blooming sprays

Pour out their blithest roundelays.

It is to hear the robin trill

At morning, or the whippoorwill

At dusk, when stars are blossoming

To hear her sing — to hear her sing!

To hear her sing — it is to hear

The laugh of childhood ringing clear

In woody path or grassy lane

Our feet may never fare again.

Faint, far away as Memory dwells,

It is to hear the village bells

At twilight, as the truant hears

Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

Such joy it is to hear her sing,

We fall in love with everything —

The simple things of every day

Grow lovelier than words can say.

The idle brooks that purl across

The gleaming pebbles and the moss,

We love no less than classic streams —

The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.

To hear her sing — with folded eyes,

It is, beneath Venetian skies,

To hear the gondoliers’ refrain,

Or troubadours of sunny Spain.—

To hear the bulbul's voice that shook

The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh:

What wonder we in homage bring

Our hearts to her — to hear her sing!