These, are they gifts of olden
And lovelit days whereto in praise
I utter back beholden?—
See, see, thy throat trilling each note
Throbs like a zephyr golden.
There—as I gaze in rapt amaze—
Swollen with rare emotion,
Fervid of joy, scorning alloy,
Spurning a base devotion
To shackled earth, it trips a mirth