Troubling the air of the sunny spot?
Is there not something to rouse but me,
Told by the rustling of every tree?
Song hath been here, with its flow of thought;
Love, with its passionate visions fraught;
Death, breathing stillness and sadness round;
And is it not—is it not haunted ground?
Are there no phantoms, but such as come
By night from the darkness that wraps the tomb?
A sound, a scent, or a whispering breeze,