Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die
On the green hills?—the founts, from sparry caves
Through the wild places bearing melody?—
The reeds, low whispering o’er the river waves?
—Far in my own bright land!
Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining,
The virgin dances, and the choral strains?
Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining
The spring’s first roses for their sylvan fanes?
—Far in my own bright land!