II.
They call me through this hush of woods reposing
In the gray stillness of the summer morn;
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing,
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born.
Even as a fount’s remember’d gushings burst
On the parch’d traveller in his hour of thirst,
E’en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say—
Oh! for the dove’s swift wings, that I might flee away,