And the summer breath of the myrtle flowers,
Borne from the mountain in dewy hours,
And the fire-fly’s glance through the darkening shades,
Like shooting stars in the forest glades,
And the scent of the citron at eve’s dim fall—
Speak! have ye known, have ye felt them all?
The heavy-rolling surge! the rocking mast!—
Hush! give my dream’s deep music way, thou blast!
Oh, the glad sounds of the joyous earth!
The notes of the singing cicala’s mirth,