1 The voice of my beloved sounds,
While o'er the mountain-top he bounds:
He flies exulting o'er the hills,
And all my soul with transport fills;
Gently doth he chide my stay,
"Rise my love and come away,"

2 The scatter'd clouds are fled at last,
The rain is gone; the winter's past,
The lovely vernal flow'rs appear,
The warbling choir enchant our ear;
Now, with sweetly pensive moan,
Cooes the turtle dove alone.