Beside the window I sit alone,
And I watch as the stars come out,
I catch the sweetness of Lucy's tone,
And the mirth of the chorus' shout:
I listen and look on the solemn night,
Whilst they stand singing beneath the light.
Lucy looks just like an early rose
(Somebody else is thinking so),
And every day more fair she grows
(Somebody will not say me no),
And she sings like a bird whose heart is bless'd
(And Somebody thinks of building a nest!)
And now she chooses another tune,
One that was often sung by me:
I do not think that these nights in June
Are half so fine as they used to be,
Or 'tis colder watching the solemn night,
Than standing singing beneath the light.
Lucy, you sing like a silver bell,
Your face is fresh as a morning flower—
Why should you think of the sobs which swell
When leaves fall fast in the autumn bower?
Rather gather your buds and sing your song,
Their perfume and echo will linger long.
I'm grey and grave,—and 'tis quite time too,—
I go at leisure along my ways;
But I know how life appears to you,
I know the words that Somebody says:
As old songs are sweet, and old words true,
So there's one old story that's always new!
There is a grave that you do not know,
A drawer in my desk that you've never seen,
A page in my life that I never show,
A love in my heart that is always green:
Sing out the old song! I fear not the pain,
I sang it once—Lucy, sing it again!
