Of jubilant birds, the Summer’s full-voiced choir,
Singing thy praises—for they sing of Love,
And Love was the high choral of thy life,
The swan-song of thy soul; thou canst not hear
The sweetest sounds—made sweeter for thy sake
By the presiding Genius of this place—
The silvery minor-music of the rain,
Those murmurous drops, with iterations soft,
Of every flower, and trembling blade of grass,
A fairy’s cymbal make; the whispering wind,