The Lonely Mountain
By John Banister Tabb
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.
Source Book
Poems
by John Banister Tabb
Copyright 1860
Published by Ticknor And Fields, Boston
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The Lonely Mountain
by John Banister Tabb

