To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- br It is to hear the birds of Spring br In dewy groves on blooming sprays br Pour out their blithest roundelays. br br It is to hear the robin trill br At morning, or the whip-poor-will br At dusk, when stars are blossoming-- br To hear her sing--to hear her sing! br br To hear her sing--it is to hear br The laugh of childhood ringing clear br In woody path or grassy lane br Our feet may never fare again. br br Faint, far away as Memory dwells, br It is to hear the village bells br At twilight, as the truant hears br Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears. br br Such joy it is to hear her sing, br We fall in love with everything-- br The simple things of every day br Grow lovelier than words can say. br br The idle brooks that purl across br The gleaming pebbles and the moss, br We love no less than classic streams-- br The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams. br br To hear her sing--with folded eyes, br It is, beneath Venetian skies, br To hear the gondoliers' refrain, br Or troubadours of sunny Spain.