It is the time when birds are calling,
Each to his mate, his sweetheart mate,
When airs are sweet with blossoms falling,
And spring is waxing warm and late.
And care is grown a heavy thralling
That keeps me from my fair estate.
For in the old familiar places
Doth nature list, for me doth list;
And in the wood's untrodden spaces
Are pathways where my feet are missed,
And little starry flower-faces
That watch for me to keep a tryst.
Sweet valleys that the sky stoops over
So tenderly, so tenderly,
And hillsides, where the whitening clover
Already tempts the roving bee--
My heart is still your faithful lover,
Remembering charms none else may see.
The robin is my younger brother;
Blackbird and thrush, sparrow and wren,
Each year to greet the dear old Mother
Come all the children home again;
She cries to me "I miss no other;
Ah, why so long in haunts of men?"
She knows my heart could never wrong her;
She calls me so, she draws me so;
I feel the old spell growing stronger
Aside the heavy weight I throw;
I cannot bide in exile longer,
Home to the meadow, let me go!
