RIVERS TO THE SEA
The marble satyr plays a mournful strain
That leaves the rainy fragrance musical.
Oh dripping laurel, Phœbus sacred tree,
Would that swift Daphne's lot might come to me,
Then would I still my soul and for an hour
Change to a laurel in the glancing shower.
X
Stresa
The moon grows out of the hills
A yellow flower,
The lake is a dreamy bride
Who waits her hour.
Beauty has filled my heart,
It can hold no more,
It is full, as the lake is full,
From shore to shore.
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