My love, my love, when falls the summer rain
With soothing music on the midnight eaves,
I dream a dream of mingled bliss and pain:
Deep in our heart-fields do I rove again,
And bind with thee the ripe and shining sheaves.
O Land of Joy! the purple mountains flinging
Rich bars of shade across our sunny ease,
The spicy blooms, the groves with bird-notes ringing,
And, sweet through all, the wind a carol singing
Of fairer morns to rise o'er rosy seas.
Love's harvest clime, alas! is ours no more!
For other hearts is heaped the golden grain!
We may not glean where glad we reapt before,
Nor sing the songs, nor wear the smiles we wore,
Nor hear the wind blow sweet across the plain.
Yet still, my love, when fall the summer showers
With soothing music on the midnight eaves,
I dream a dream that all my life o'erpowers:
Blithe in our heart-fields do I pluck the flowers,
And bind with thee the ripe and shining sheaves.
