Where the shadowy branches wave
O’er a rude and moss-grown tomb,
Is an Indian maiden’s grave:
None knoweth that music-haunted spot—
Save a far-off one, who forgets it not.
He dreams of that silent shore—
’Tis a holy spot to him,
A solemn stillness broodeth o’er
Those forest-aisles so dim;
Bird-music, and wave-melody,