With the bright things which have birth
Wide o’er all the colour’d earth!
With the violet’s breath would rise
Thoughts too sad for her who dies;
From the lily’s pearl-cup shed,
Dreams too sweet would haunt her bed;
Dreams of youth—of spring-time’s eves—
Music—beauty—all she leaves!
Hush! ’tis thou that dreaming art,
Calmer is her gentle heart.