Of the vine-wreathed porch, where the zephyr sings
Through the rustling leaves, and the sunbeam falls—
Of the threshold stone, and the open door,
Of the kindred forms that gathered there,
At the stilly eve full hearts to pour,
In a gush of song on the listening air—
Of the noisy flow of the little brook,
Whose mossy banks our footsteps haunted;
Of winds which half their sweetness took
From fragrant bowers our hands had planted.