From shade to sun-streak are they glancing still
Among the poplar-boughs?
Jessy. All, all is there
Which glad midsummer’s wealthiest hours can bring;
All, save the soul of all, thy lightning-smile!
Therefore I stood in sadness midst the leaves,
And caught an under-music of lament
In the stream’s voice. But Nature waits thee still,
And for thy coming piles a fairy throne
Of richest moss.