And so your life has been a dreary story
Of treachery against you, leal and true;
And little of our nature’s tender glory
Is yet revealed to you.
You think that you are wise and I am dreaming
The dream of youth — as beautiful as vain —
That friendship is another name for scheming,
And love is — love of gain.
My friend, not long ago my dull existence
Passed slowly by within a city drear,
I watched the endless roofs, the smoky distance,
The sparrows, prating near,
At length a footstep mounted to my attic:
One entered in and reached to me his hands,
And now I go with him — O joy ecstatic! —
Across the meadow-lands.
The saucy robin trills his carol near us,
The lark arises at our very feet,
While speckled thrush and blackbird often cheer us
With mellow notes and sweet.
And he — my guide — has promised me that yonder
Are built the nests of doves and nightingales,
In secret woods where we alone shall wander,
In more sequestered vales.
But you — you look for doves in city alleys,
For nightingales among the sparrow crew —
Then marvel that the music of our valleys
Is still unheard by you.