The Meadow Air Is Sweet

The meadow air is sweet;—
The cowslip’s cup of gold
Is full of fresh and fragrant dew,—
More full than it can hold.

The meadow air is sweet;—
The blackbird’s mellow note,
Like water in a little brook,
Flows gurgling from his throat.

The meadow air is sweet;—
The stream that cheers the lea
Will feel the willow’s tender kiss,
E’en to the distant sea.

The meadow air is sweet;—
Hark! from the old elm tree:—
Ah! only lovers understand
The oriole’s ecstasy.

The meadow air is sweet;—
The clover, handsome-white,
With dainty odors woos the bee,
And fills her with delight.

The meadow air is sweet;—
The bobolink is there!
When he is mute a faery flute
Seems echoing in the air.

The meadow air is sweet;—
The daisy in the grass
Looks up to see the clouds, and feel
Their shadow as they pass.

The meadow air is sweet;—
The swallow flashes by,
Too merry for a moment’s rest
Between the earth and sky.

The meadow air is sweet;—
The day wanes in the west,
And twilight’s soothing shadows lull
A weary world to rest.

The meadow air is sweet;—
Like altar incense rare,
It blends the robin’s even-song
With the little children’s prayer.