Six songs , opus 25

Flow on! Happy stream
To the shining river;
We are as a dream
Thou wilt glide for ever;
Where the white stones gleam
And the pale leaves quiver,
Flow! Thou happy stream
To the shining river

Past the dewy mead,
By the drooping willow,
Hurry o'er thy bed
To the restless billow;
Where the seabirds ride
And the dark waves sorrow,
Swinging with the tide
May'st thou be tomorrow!

O'er the yellow sand,
O'er the smooth-faced pebble,
Forward to the strand,
With thy tireless ripple;
Ere the sunbeams fade,
Ere the cold winds shiver,
Hasten through the glade,
Hasten, hasten to the river.

Lonely is the wood, 
Lonely is the hollow,
Spacious is the flood,
Thither we must follow; 
Soon our lives are sped
Like the mountain heather,
Throng we to our bed
With the leaves that wither.

Flow on! happy stream
To the shining river;
We have dreamed our dream,
Thou wilt glide forever;
Where the white stones gleam,
And the pale leaves quiver,
Flow! thou happy stream,
Flow! flow! and reach the river.

O what if the fowler my blackbird has taken?
The sun lifts his head from the lip of the sea.
Awaken, my blackbird, awaken, awaken!
And sing to me out of my red fuchsia tree!

O what if the fowler my blackbird has taken?
The mountains grow white with the birds of the sea:
But down in the garden, forsaken, forsaken,
I'll weep all the day by my red fuchsia tree.
Ah!

I sing of a maiden
That is matchless;
King of all kings
To her son she chose.

He came all so still
There his mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.

He came all so still
To his mother's bower,
As dew in April
That falleth on the flower.

He came all so still
There his mother lay, 
As dew in April
That falleth on the spray.

Mother and maiden
Was never none but she;
Well may such a lady
Goddes mother be.

My faint spirit was sitting in the light
  Of thy looks, my love;
It panted for thee like the hind at noon
  For the brooks, my love.
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight,
  Bore thee far from me;
My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,
  Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
  Or the death they bear,
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
  With the wings of care;
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
  Shall mine cling to thee,
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
  It may bring to thee.

Music, when soft voices die,	
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

In the scented bud of the morning -- O,
  When the windy grass went rippling far,
I saw my dear one walking slow,
  In the field where the daises are.

We did not laugh [and]1 we did not speak
  As we wandered [happily]2 to and fro;
I kissed my dear on either cheek,
  In the bud of the morning -- O!

A lark sang up from the breezy land,
  A lark sang down from a cloud afar,
As she and I went hand in hand
  In the field where the daisies are.