Kine, kine, in the meadows, why do you low so piteously?
High is the grass to your knees and wet with the dew of the morn,
Sweet with the perfume of honey, and breath of the clover blossoms;
But the sad-eyed kine on the hillside see no joy in the day newborn.
'Man, man has bereft us and taken our young ones from us;
Thus we call in the eve, call through night to the break of day,
That they may hear and answer; so we find no peace in the meadows.
Our hearts are sad with hunger for the love man stole away.'
Bird, bird, on the tree-top, my heart doth sigh for thy music;
In the glad air of morn and promise of summer, rejoice!
Thy head droops low on thy breast, half hid in thy ruffled feathers,