In childhood, sitting in the garden shade
By flowering citron, or pink almond tree,
When the spring’s breath, that round the arbor played,
My neck caressing, tossed my tresses free—
A voice I heard, so sweet, so wild, and deep,
Joy thrilled my frame that owned its magic spell;
’Twas not the wind—the bell—the reed’s soft sweep—
Nor infant’s voice, nor man’s, in murmuring swell—
My guardian genius! Oh! the voice was thine!
’Twas thou, whose spirit communed then with mine!