Within a woodland, he stood rooted there,
Glimmering wanly under pendent boughs.
Spell-bound he stood, in very woeful plight,
Bewildered; and then presently with shock
Of rapid pulses hammering at heart,
As mad besiegers hammer at a gate,
To life came back, and turned on heel to fly
From that accursed spot and all that was,
When once more the girl's laugh made rich the night,
And melted, and the silence grieved anew.
Like lead his feet were, and he needs must halt.
Close upon this, but further off, a voice
From somewhere--Echo at her trick again!--
Took up the rhyme of Sweetheart, sigh no more.


It was with doubt and trembling
I whispered in her ear.
Go, take her answer, bird-on-bough,
That all the world may hear--
Sweetheart, sigh no more!

Sing it, sing it, tawny throat,
Upon the wayside tree,
How fair she is, how true she is,
How dear she is to me--
Sweetheart sigh no more!

Sing it, sing it, tawny throat,
And through the summer long