Blow, bugle; answer, echoes—dying, dying, dying!

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,

And thinner, clearer, farther going!

O sweet and far, from cliff and scar,

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!

Blow! let us hear the purple glens replying;

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes—dying, dying, dying!

O love! they die in yon rich sky:

They faint on hill, or field or river;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,