White-Throats in Franconia

In the rose-flush of morn,
As the mountain mists rise
Wraith-like, kissing the skies,
As the peaks one by one
Bathe their crests in the sun
Lo, a voice from the woods,
Thrilling, delicate, clear,
Dwells trembling in the ear,
And, like a faëry horn,
Melts on the solitudes.

Surely the mountaineer
Never returns in dreams
To the old, birch-hung streams—
Never in visions sees,
Bounding the lofty trees,
Blush of a dawning day,
But that ethereal strain
Thrills o’er his heart again,
Spirit-like, silver-clear,
Sky-born –the white-throat’s lay!