’Tis sweet at morn among the corn,
When air and earth are jolly,
But sweeter far, at evening’s star,
Among the woods of holly.
The morn, though fair, is tinged with care,
Pain wakens with the morrow;
But evening’s light, though not so bright,
Is not so full of sorrow.
O, pensive star, that shin’st afar,
Why dost thou beam so sweetly?
O, bird of eve, why dost thou grieve
So mournfully and featly?
The pale star shines, the bird repines
Among the woods of holly,
To soothe away the cares of day,
And cleanse the heart from folly.
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