O MAGIC music of the Spring, —
Across the morning's breezy meads
I hear the south wind in the reeds,
I hear the golden bluebirds sing

O mellow music of the morn, —
Across the fading fields of Time
How many joyous songs are borne
From memory's enchanting clime.

I see the grasses shine with dew,
The cornflowers gleaming in the grain,
And, oh! the bluebirds sing — and you?
We fare together once again.

O haunting music of the dusk,
When silent birds are on the wing
And sweet is scent of pine and musk —
Oh, as we wander hand in hand
Across the shadow-painted land,
I hear the golden bluebirds sing!