All in the woodland morning
I strayed alone with my pain;
When the old dreams returning
Crept into my heart again.

Oh, birds through the high air winging,
Who taught you that little air?
Oh, hush! when I hear your singing
My grief is hard to bear!

" A passing maiden taught it,
She sang it o'er and o'er;
And we little birdies caught it,
The golden, beautiful lore! "

Nay, you shall tell it me never,
Ye birdies, so keen and sly;
To steal my grief you'd endeavour,
But I trust no one — not I!