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 whip-poor-will
    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!