In this cathedral vast, by tall elms reared,
While through yon leafy oriel streams the sun
On those old boughs, by many an Autumn seared
I’d dream of friends who life’s rude race have run—
Whose memory, like rare odor, fills my heart,
Nor fades, but richer grows, and is of it a part.
Where are the gay plumed warblers of the Spring?
Those winged souls, at whose melodious songs
The green leaves danced with joy? On tireless wing
To brighter bowers have flown the golden throngs;