. . . . . . . .
Oh hush! Oh hush! sweet wind!
Thou melancholy soul! be still, I pray,
Nor pierce this heart so long in grief resigned,
With ’plainings for the loved but lifeless clay.
Ah! now by thee I hear
The earnest, gentle voices, as of old:
They speak—in accents tremulously clear—
The young, the beautiful, the noble-souled.
The beautiful, the young,