And the reeds whisper with a dreamy tone
Of melody that seems to breathe from worlds unknown;
XXXVIII.
A night to call from green Elysium’s bowers
The shades of elder bards; a night to hold
Unseen communion with th’ inspiring powers
That made deep groves their dwelling-place of old;
A night for mourners, o’er the hallow’d mould,
To strew sweet flowers—for revellers to fill
And wreathe the cup—for sorrows to be told