Of glory, fading fast
Along the mountains!—but thy golden day
Was not as those that warn us of decay.
And ever, through thy shades,
A swell of deep Æolian sound went by
From fountain-voices in their secret glades,
And low reed-whispers, making sweet reply
To summer’s breezy sigh,
And young leaves trembling to the wind’s light breath,
Which ne’er had touch’d them with a hue of death!