Soft is the sky, and the joy of birds
Breaks from the copse on the budding brae,
And the air hath the dream of the peaceful herds
That graze in the fields to-day.
And the brook hath a turn in its wavering strain
That steals to my heart like a passionate thought,
The phantoms of evil assail me in vain
And I set the world's wisdom at naught.

For my Love goeth forth and her robes are white,
White like the clouds at the break of the dawn,
Fair — fair — and a madness doth burn in my sight,
Lest the vision should be withdrawn:
My Love goeth forth and the lingering air
Lifteth up the soft tresses that shadow her eyes,
'Tis an angel — I say — hath been drawn by my prayer
To come down from that land in the skies.

What envious hand doth lay
The keen blade to the grasses?
What blight hath turned to gray
The flowering woodland passes?

Dull is the sky, the mingling joy of birds
Sounds from the dell, but music's balm hath fled.
I hear the lowing of returning herds,
But hope and love are dead.
The brook's soft voice doth murmur at my feet
Like some lost voice that calleth from afar
The withered leaves sail like a mournful fleet,
Which cometh back from war.

For my Love goeth forth and her robe is white,
White, like the snow in the cleft of the hill,
My Love goeth forth with the King in his might
And her hands are crossed and still,
My Love goeth forth and my wild despair
Can not lift the soft lashes which shadow her eyes,
'Tis an angel — I say — that in spite of my care
Goeth back to that land in the skies.