Like sighs of thine own "lyrëd wind."
For when thy page I deeply trace,
Where thoughts and fancies thickly throng,
It brings to mind free nature's grace,
Where wood-birds tune their mystic song;
And pleasant streams in ways remote,
Where sweetest music loves to reign;
Where solitude gives birth to thought,
And thought is born of thought again;
Visions of earth, the pure and bright,