The sea-like moaning of the distant pines,
The sound of wandering streams, or, sweeter still,
The voice of happy children at their play—
Ah, none of these interminable tones
Of Nature’s many-chorded instrument,
Which make the music of the outward world,
As thou didst make its inner harmony,
Out of the finer love-chords of thy heart,
Shall ever move thee; but a mightier charm
Shall often woo thee from thy heavenly home,