O thou sweet bird in the hazel tops,
 Piping high, piping low, piping clear!
O thou sweet bird in the hazel tops,
 Pipe to me of my dear!

Thou canst make love to her better than I,
 Thrush, oh, Thrush of my heart!
Blending thy notes with the blue of the sky,
 Whilst the cloudlets drift apart.

Call to her now from the fields of thy grace,
 Name her by wood and stream!
Tell her, I long to see her face
 Within the moonlight gleam.

Tell her, sweet Thrush, of the grief that has lain
 For six long months at my breast,
Tell her, sweet Thrush, of my endless pain--
 Of the agony of unrest!

And if, of her grace, she would pity give--
 Pity from her heart's core--
Tell her, by that one word I'll live,
 And love for evermore.

One only mate in Life's wilderness!
 One only maid for me!
Oh, when will my loved one's lips confess
 What I've confest to thee!