Oh! tell me why unsatisfied forever here they roam,
And seem to claim in higher spheres a refuge and a home.
II.
Why is it that the rainbow and the tints of evening clouds
Dispel the mists in which the world our spirits still enshrouds?
The chord they strike!—oh, tell me not that it can be of earth—
The golden heart-string that they touch is not of mortal birth:
The very buds and blossoms, and the balmy summer air,
Awake within us shadows vague of things more bright and fair;
’Tis almost like remembrance—oh! would that I could tell