It needs no Flora to bring back those flowers—
No gay Apollo to sound liquid reeds—
No muse to consecrate the hills and streams—
No God or oracle within those groves
To render sacred all the emerald glooms:
For here dwelt such bright angels as attend
The innocent ways of youth's unsullied feet;
And all the beautiful band of sinless hopes,
Twining their crowns of pearl-white amaranth;
And rosy, dream-draped, sapphire-eyed desires