In the scent of the rose, the breath of the spring,
The cloud of the summer, glistening;
In the sound of an orient forest dim,
Scarce heard far off on ocean's rim
By wondering traveller who descries
Naught of all its mysteries;
In the wash of the wave, the sigh of the sea,
The laughter of leaves on the wind-tossed tree.
Her hair is the dusk of an autumn night,
Her brow the moonbeam's pallid light,