And the groves with his brilliants shine:
How his breath enchaineth the rolling tide,
And bids the chaf’d torrent be still,
Then dashes away in his might and his pride,
And laughs that they heeded his will!
They tell you our birds at the Autumn’s breath,
When the flow’rs droop over their tomb,
Are off to the land where they meet no death,
And the orange-trees ever more bloom.
Tell them we ask not affection so slight