The skies they were leaden, the snow-flakes were falling; No blackbird or linnet was courting or calling; But the wood-dove's sweet moaning was heard in the distance, And her song all of love came in dulcet persistence. Oh, what though the nests were all flooded with water, And the cold eggs would give them no sweet son or daughter, She was dreamy with pleasure for her true Love beside her, And her day was as gold as though young leaves did hide her! O Love, sang the wood-dove, the sweet bird of summer, It were death, it were madness, were my Love a roamer; But Love true and faithful, what power has cold weather To still our wild songs, Love, since we are together? Then I said to my true Love, true love is enough, Love, And how wise is the wood-dove who learns that lore off, Love! 'Tis our charm for the winter, and when the winds cry, Love, And when, in the grave, on your heart I shall lie, Love. |