The sea-mew screams in flight
Over the wild, wide sea;
And the wind has a weary murmur
Through the boughs of the leafless tree.

But O! the heart has music
In all its happy moods,
As if the golden summer
Were here among the trees.

There are clouds on the distant hills
And the sky is a misty grey;
And dimly loom the fishing smacks
Afar on the sunless bay.

But the heart can cherish beauty
And a pleasant vision weaves
As when the song of the woodlark
Came merryly sic through the trees.

O wind, on sand and shingle
Still dash the stormy spray.
I hear in thy hoarsest tumult
The silver voice of May.