Sing to me, sing, and sing again,
My glad, great-throated nightingale:
Sing, as the good sun through the rain —
Sing, as the home-wind in the sail!
Sing to me life, and toil, and time,
O bugle of dawn, O flute of rest!
Sing, and once more, as in the prime,
There shall be naught but seems the best.
And sing me at the last of love:
Sing that old magic of the May,
That makes the great world laugh and move
As lightly as our dream to-day!