HOW gently this evening the ripples break On the pebbles beneath the trees, With a music as low as the full leaves make, When they stir in some soft sea-breeze, And as day-light dies, if I rest my boat 'Neath this bough where the blossoms fall, I shall hear the curlew's last good-night note, As he answers the sea-gull's call. And there where the wheat lies in golden sheaves In the fields across the river, And wood-bine creeps over porches and eaves, And fuchsia and myrtle quiver, Lives my love, my love; tis her casement see, Where the light glimmers to and fro, If she were my love she would come to me This evening, I long for her so. I long for her so that to linger near Her home as I do sometimes, And send her blessings across from here, When they ring the Westleigh chimes, Makes my summer glad, so I stay my boat 'Neath this bough where the blossoms fall, While the curlew flies with his good-night note, To the sea where the white gulls call. |