Across the Hills

Soft blows the evening air across the hills,

Soft springs the tender grass beneath my tread.

The evening bird in rapture shakes and trills,

Then fades where glows the sunset overhead.

But what are skies, if your eyes tell not love,

And what the bird's song, if your voice I miss?

What joy hath earth beneath or balm above,

If o'er the hills the wind bear not your kiss?