But still from out her lonely haunt is borne her sad replying:
There is of youth no lasting font, there is no end but dying,
The flowers that on the hillsides bloom
And all that share their sweet perfume
Shall mingle in one common tomb, for all but love is dying.
There is of youth no lasting font, there is no end but dying,
The flowers that on the hillsides bloom
And all that share their sweet perfume
Shall mingle in one common tomb, for all but love is dying.
Awake, rapt songsters of the grove, and sing of mirth and gladness,
Drown with the melodies of love that solemn voice of sadness;
The winds her mournful omens waft,
Then let them bear your notes aloft,
Ye at the font of love have quaffed, and love shall live forever.
Drown with the melodies of love that solemn voice of sadness;
The winds her mournful omens waft,
Then let them bear your notes aloft,
Ye at the font of love have quaffed, and love shall live forever.
Hark! what a mingled burst of sound with every breath more thrilling,
From ridge to ridge its echoes bound, the loftiest hope fulfilling,
Wild rapture rends the balmy air,
Soft carols find an echo there,
The dove's low requiem has its share in Spring's complete outpouring.
From ridge to ridge its echoes bound, the loftiest hope fulfilling,
Wild rapture rends the balmy air,
Soft carols find an echo there,
The dove's low requiem has its share in Spring's complete outpouring.
Join with the rest, thou gentle dove; there is no song of gladness
But grows more tenderly complete when linked with notes of sadness,
Then chant thy sweet, pathetic strain,
Spring waits to hear thy soft refrain,
Calling her to accept a throne
Where gladness cannot reign alone, but joy and grief are blending.
But grows more tenderly complete when linked with notes of sadness,
Then chant thy sweet, pathetic strain,
Spring waits to hear thy soft refrain,
Calling her to accept a throne
Where gladness cannot reign alone, but joy and grief are blending.
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