O magic music of the spring,—
Across the morning's breezy meads
I hear the south wind in the reeds,
I hear the golden bluebirds sing.
O mellow music of the morn,—
Across the fading fields of Time
How many joyous songs are borne
From memory's enchanting clime.
I see the grasses shine with dew,
The cornflowers gleaming in the grain,
And Oh! The bluebirds sing—and You?
We fare together once again.
O haunting music of the dusk,
When silent birds are on the wing
And sweet is scent of pine and musk—
Oh! As we wander hand in hand
Along the shadow-painted land,
I hear the golden bluebirds sing.
