I cannot tell why there must be such glory On mountain peaks when daylight comes to end, As stately hills, like those of mystic story, Far in the distance with the skyline blend.
I cannot tell just why I can but love you, Though I recall so many, many things; Yet, like the brightness of the stars above you, When much is reckoned, much, so much, remains.
As in the faint light when the night approaches, And every summit bends toward darker hue, So in thy presence let me move while living, My thoughts, my life, my love encompass you.
Can I forget those June days on the prairie, And such bright stars as nighttide there discerned, On lands light touched by some indulgent fairy, And to the green of spring withal returned?
Can I forget swift shadows on rich wheat fields As scattered clouds rode wild below the blue, Or watered rows, to mark the fertile beet fields, And lines of corn scarce risen into view?
I'll not forget those soft nights on the prairie As years pass on, their good and ill to bring; Though tide may change and fitful fortune vary, I'll always love the West in days of spring.
And some good night, upon that distant prairie, On lands laid long across the world’s wide face, Once more I'll stand in vision solitary, When Spring and I have met in that blest place.
When roses bloom in June, they say, And summer's night is softly dim, Such bliss shall sweep across this earth As neither brush nor pen can limn.
But June, tonight, is far away, While you are sweetly near to me; So ‘mid the hurl of wintry storm My heart shall sing this song to thee:
Let roses wait the warmth of June, Till seasons set for them appear; I can forget the drifting snow So long as thou, My Love, art near;
And when the winter leads to spring, Or spring is lost in summer's night, Still shalt thou be, Beloved One, The cherished soul of my delight.
Low lies a land, swept by a languid breeze, Where aged mosses cling to wearied trees, As somber rivers seek their destined seas.
Where listless cypresses in cadence sway Above dark swamps, as in the sodden gray Of morn, some lonely heron glides away.
Far are the sweep and strident stress of sound; There muted silence, unperturbed, is found, And hushed inertia is all around.
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