Whence do thy soul’s fresh fountains pour?
Where the mountains dip or the valleys soar?
Tell me, the truth confessing;
Open to me youth’s door.
Lenore, my heart is sad.
Thine is so constant, thine is so glad.
Teach me thine equable gait to borrow;
Teach me laughter and sorrow.
My heart is a desert, sterile and bare;
My heart is thine: do thou whisper there