I hear a rainbird singing Far off. How fine and clear His plaintive voice comes ringing With rapture to the ear! Over the misty wood-lots, Across the first spring heat, Comes the enchanted cadence, So clear, so solemn-sweet. The summer dies more gently there, The April flowers are earlier,-- The first warm rain-wind from the Sound Sets all their eager hearts astir. And there when lengthening twilights fall As softly as a wild bird's wing, Across the valley in the dusk I hear the silver flute of spring.