The Lonely Mountain

One bird, that ever with the wakening spring
Was wont to sing,
I wait, through all my woodlands, far and near,
In vain to hear.


The voice of many waters, silent long
Breaks forth in song;
Young breezes to the listening leaves outpour
Their heavenly lore:


A thousand other wingèd warblers sweet,
Returning, greet
Their fellows, and rebuild upon my breast
The wonted nest.


But unto me one fond familiar strain
Comes not again—
A breath whose faintest echo, farthest heard,
A mountain stirred.