THE birds sang from the tree,
'Sweetheart
Go forth across the silent hills,
For, in the vale their shadow fills,
Thy love awaiteth thee
With lonely heart.'
She wound a wreath of flowers
So sweet,
And, while the birds still sang their song
Across the hills she passed along
In the fair sunrise hours,
Her love to meet.
But when the sun, asleep
At eve,
Lay hid behind a purple cloud,
Each little bird in leafy shroud
Saw her return and weep,
'And dost thou grieve?'
'Ah no, I am not sad,'
She said,
'He did not know me when I came,
But I have crowned him all the same,
And how can I be sad?
My heart is glad.'