With the first blush of morning, my soul is awing,
Away o’er the phantom lands free, wandering,
I seek thee in hamlet, in woodland, and hall,
Till night-shades, enfolding my tired heart, fall.
Yet ever and alway, like the thrush in a tree,
My heart lifts its preluding love-song to thee;
I call through the days, through the long weary years,
And slumber at night-fall, refreshed by my tears.