And woke its inner harmonies divine.
And where Sicilia smooths the ruffled seas,
And Tempe hollows all its purple vales,
Thrice have I heard the noble nightingales,
All night entranced beneath the bloomy trees;
But music, nightingales, and all that Thought
Conceives of song is naught
To thy rich voice, which echoes in my brain,
And fills my longing heart with a melodious pain!
A thousand lamps were lit—I saw them not—