And thro’ the cloud-rifts shine the stars,
As sunbeams burst thro’ prison bars;
And on the soft wind, faintly heard,
The warbling of some twilight bird
Comes floating sylph-like, clad with power,
To whisper, “This is love’s own hour!”
’Tis autumn—and with summer fell
The climbing vines of Sylvan Dell;
Our flowers too withered when the pall