Where many a longing heart reposes,
Waking old love-dreams that overflow
In a rapturous joy and wistful pain.
Ah, that song ’tis sweet as the pipes of Pan,
Or faint lutes sounding in Arcady
Through the purple dawn,—yea, far sweeter than
The music that wafts from a Southern sea!
Beneath its spell the wastes bloom in flowers,
And back again come the vanished hours,
For she who sings to the soul of man