With galaxy of water-lilies, where,
Like mild Diana ’mong the quiet stars,
’Neath over-bending branches, thou wilt move,
Till early warblers shake the crystal shower,
And whistling pinions warn thee to thy voyage.
But where art thou!—lost—spirited away
To bowers of light by thy own dying whispers?
Or does some billow of the ocean air,
In its still roll around from zone to zone,
All breathless to the empyrean heave thee?—