When Morn, in spring glory,
Salutes the dull earth,
How sweet is her story
Of music and mirth.
The happy leaves glisten
And tremble around,
The young blossoms listen
With joy to the sound.
They tell by their blushes,
Their soft breathing proves,
That night’s dewy hushes
Promoted their loves.
The murmur of grasses,
The singing of birds,
In sweetness surpasses
The compass of words.
Far away on the mountain
The mist is on fire,
And the joy of the fountain
Can soar up no higher.
A tremor of gladness
Pervadeth the air,
And no touch of sadness
Can rest anywhere.
We cease to be mortal
In moments like this,
And enter the portal
Of absolute bliss.
At noon, and at even,
We think of the morn,
In the midst of whose heaven
Such beauty is born.
’Tis thus I shall cherish
Till life’s gloaming end,
And never let perish
The face of a friend.
Then come, gentle maiden,
And dwell with the few
That in my soul’s Aidenn
I know to be true;—
Some distant, some sleeping
The sleep of the just,
Are here in the keeping
Of memory’s trust.
With these let thy spirit
Abide in its place,
So shall I inherit
New goodness and grace.