As harps, beneath a summer wind,
With wild, mysterious lays are gushing.
Fast came rememb’rance of that eve,
Whose first wild throb of earthly bliss
Was but to gaze, and to receive
The boon of hope so vast as this—
To clasp that being as his own,
To win her from her native bowers;
And form a spirit-land, alone
With her amid perennial flowers.