“O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

“O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river:

Our echoes roll from soul to soul

And grow forever and forever.