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James Whitcomb Riley - To Hear Her Sing
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To hear her sing--to hear her sing--
  It is to hear the birds of Spring
  In dewy groves on blooming sprays
  Pour out their blithest roundelays.

  It is to hear the robin trill
  At morning, or the whip-poor-will
  At dusk, when stars are blossoming--
  To hear her sing--to hear her sing!

  To hear her sing--it is to hear
  The laugh of childhood ringing clear
  In woody path or grassy lane
  Our feet may never fare again.

  Faint, far away as Memory dwells,
  It is to hear the village bells
  At twilight, as the truant hears
  Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

  Such joy it is to hear her sing,
  We fall in love with everything--
  The simple things of every day
  Grow lovelier than words can say.

  The idle brooks that purl across
  The gleaming pebbles and the moss,
  We love no less than classic streams--
  The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.

  To hear her sing--with folded eyes,
  It is, beneath Venetian skies,
  To hear the gondoliers` refrain,
  Or troubadours of sunny Spain.--

  To hear the bulbul`s voice that shook
  The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh:
  What wonder we in homage bring
  Our hearts to her--to hear her sing!
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