When the Thorn Blows

Dawn glimmers white beyond the burning hill Where sunbeams light a fire in every tree.

The morning bird is singing clear and shrill; And oh, my love! when will you come to me?

The daisies whitely sleep beneath the dew; On the wet road the stones are fair to see; Cloudy, the blackthorn floats upon the blue; And oh, my love! when will you come to me?

The wind came walking in the shaken wood; He shouted from the mountains and the sea.

By the pale thorn he paused, in lover’s mood - And oh, my love! when will you come to me?

My heart has blossomed meekly as the thorn; It has its dews, and daisies two or three. The heavens quicken, green as April corn — And oh, my love! when will you come to me?