Tell me, thou mild and melancholy bird,
Whence learnedst thou that meditative voice?
For all the forest--passages rejoice,
And not a note of sorrow now is heard:
I would know more: how is it I preferred
To leave the station of my morning choice,
Where, with her sudden startle of shrill noise,
The budding thorn--bush brake the blackbird stirred?

Sweet mourner, who, in time of fullest glee,
Risest to uttering but so sad a strain,
And in the bleak winds, when they ruffle thee,
Keepest thee still, and never dost complain;
I love thee: for thy note to memory brings
This sorrowing in the midst of happiest things.