Midst the glad music of the spring alone,
And sorrowful for visions that are gone!
Come to me! make your thrilling whispers heard,
Ye, by those masters of the soul endow’d
With life, and love, and many a burning word,
That bursts from grief like lightning from a cloud,
And smites the heart, till all its chords reply,
As leaves make answer when the wind sweeps by.
Come to me! visit my dim haunt!—the sound
Of hidden springs is in the grass beneath;