The voice of my beloved sounds,
While o’er the mountain-tops he bounds,
He flies exulting o’er the hills,
And all my soul with transport fills!
Gently doth he chide my stay
“Rise, my love, and come away.”
The scattered clouds are fled at last,
The rain is gone, the winter past,
The lovely vernal flowers appear,
The warbling quire enchant our ear:
Now with sweetly pensive moan,
Coos the turtle-dove alone.