The sounds must be the tones that fly
From distant harp, just ere they die;
And the light the moon's soft midnight ray,
When the cloud is downy, and thin, and grey.
And such a bower of light and love,
Of beauty, and of harmonie,
In earth below, or heaven above,
No mortal thing shall ever see.
The dream is past, it is gone away!
The rose is blighted on the spray;