A bird upon a rosy bough
sang low and long, sang late and loud,
Until the young moon's silver prow
Had sunk behind a bar of cloud.
The south wind paused and held its breath,
Sing loud and late, sing low and long
While sweet as love and sad as death,
The matchless notes rose wide and strong.
They rang with rapture, loss and change,
Sing low and late, sing long and loud,
A tumult passionate and strange,
A speechless grief, a patience proud:
Till with farewell forevermore,
Sing late and loud, sing low and long,
Like waves that kiss a barren shore,
In sobbing cadence died the song.