A voice by the cedar tree
In the meadow under the Hall!
She is singing an air that is known to me
A passionate ballad gallant and gay
A martial song like a trumpet's call!
Singing alone in the morning of life
In the happy morning of life and of May
Singing of men that in battle array
Ready in heart and ready in hand
March with banner and bugle and fife
To the death, for their native land

Maud with her exquisite face
And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky
And feet like sunny gems on an English green
Maud in the light of her youth and her grace
Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die
Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean
And myself so languid and base

Silence, beautiful voice!
Be still, for you only trouble the mind
With a joy in which I cannot rejoice
A glory I shall not find
Still! I will hear you no more
For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choice
But to move to the meadow and fall before
Her feet on the meadow grass, and adore
Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind
Not her, not her, but a voice