The winds that slumbered in the fields of dew,
Float round me now with music on their pinions,
Such as I heard while yet my years were few,
By native streams, in boyhood’s lost dominions.
And with the breath of morning on my brow,
I hear the accents of the few who love me;
Sing on full heart! I am no exile now—
This is no foreign sky that smiles above me.
I hear the happy sounds of household glee,
The heart’s own music, floating here to bless me,