Which withered upon the plain;
And cities, and race after race of men,
Have risen and sunk again.
We commune with the stars thro' the paly night,
For we love to talk with them;
The wind is our harp, and the marvellous light
Of the moon our diadem.
Like the murmur of ocean our branches stir
When the night air whispers low;
Like the voices of ocean our voices are,