That no barriers the flight of thine echoes can bind,
Which are borne o’er the earth on the wings of the wind.
There is glowing within us, all restless, a lyre,
Which would swell like an angel’s its anthems of fire,
But the shroud of mortality fetters its strings—
Yet thou while on earth hast unfolded thy wings,
Canst dwell with the fairies in chalice of flowers,
And glide with the wood nymphs in deep sylvan bowers;
Canst float with the moonbeams in dew-silvered trees,
And rise on the wings of the morn’s fragrant breeze,