Birds, that cry so loud in the old, green bowery garden,
Your song is of _Love! Love! Love!_
Will ye weary not nor cease?
For the loveless soul grows sick, the heart that the grey days harden;
I know too well that ye love! I would ye should hold your peace.
I too have seen Love rise, like a star; I have marked his setting;
I dreamed in my folly and pride that Life without Love were peace.
But if Love should await me yet, in the land of sleep and forgetting--
Ah, bird, could you sing me this, I would not your song should cease!