In the silence of the midnight,
Midst the voices of the day,
Visions of the bright and lovely
Ever round my spirit play;
Breezes from the vales of Eden
Come and fan me with their wing,
Till my soul is full of music,
And I can not choose but sing.

When a sparkling fount is brimming,
Let a fairy cloud bestow
But another drop of water,
And a wave will overflow;
When a thirsty flower has taken
All the dew its heart can bear,
It distributes the remainder
To the sunbeam and the air.

Well, I know I am not gifted
With the fervor and the fire
To enrapture and astonish
Like the masters of the lyre;
But my unpretending music
May a ray of comfort bring
To a heart oppressed with sadness;
Then, in pity, let me sing.

Like the murmur of a streamlet,
Like the carol of a bird,
My songs may be too humble
To be heeded when they're heard;
But they made my heart forgetful
Of its sorrow and its pain,
In the years that have departed,
And were therefore not in vain.

Oh, I can not say Inever
Sigh to gain a deathless name;
There is something most bewitching
In the laurel-wreath of fame;
But I know, if I could win it,
And entwine it on my brow,
That I should not be as happy
Or as light of heart as now.

For it is so bright and glowing
That it dazzles and deceives,
Whilst a thousand thorns are hidden
By the sparkle of its leaves.
No, I can not hope to reach it,
With my faint and feeble wing,
But my soul is full of music,
And I can not choose but sing.