I KNOW a vale where the oriole swings
Her nest to the breeze and the sky,
The iris opens her petal wings
And a brooklet ripples by;
In the far blue is a cloud-drift,
And the witch-tree dresses,
With a rare charm in the warm light,
Her long dream-tresses.
But yestermorn–or was it a dream?
When daisies were drinking the dew,
I wandered down by the little stream,
And who was there but you?
Though nature smiled with the old joy
To the boldest comer,
It was your voice and the wild-bird's
Were the soul of summer.
When bowed with the toils of many years,
I would rest, if it be Love's will,
In a vale where the bird songs to my ears
Come floating across the hill,
With the sweet breath of the June air
And the purple clover,
And the lone dream of the old love,
And the blue skies over.
