The voice of the bird, — in a primrose lane,
When my love and I were young;
Standing together to catch again
The story the lark had sung.

The voice of the bird, — the answering thrills
Of lovers passion-pale,
Under the moon, to the longing trills
Of the tireless nightingale.

The voice of the bird, — a livid sky,
A tempest of whirling leaves,
To hearts that sever, a long good-bye
From the swallows that line the eaves.

The voice of the bird, — when a spirit wings
Its return to Him who gave,
And the redbreast sits and gaily sings
On the brink of an open grave