There the soft airs float down
From the amaranth bowers,
All faint with the perfume
Of Eden’s own flowers.
There truth, love and beauty
Immortal will be—
O, say, wilt thou dwell
In that sweet star with me?
There the soft airs float down
From the amaranth bowers,
All faint with the perfume
Of Eden’s own flowers.
There truth, love and beauty
Immortal will be—
O, say, wilt thou dwell
In that sweet star with me?