We think not of their splendour,—
They are lovelier in decline;
And a dream, the fair and tender,
Floats o'er the fallen shrine.
If haunted by the beauty
Of Oreades long past by,
We turn with sweeter duty
To the soft eyes shining nigh.
Now God be praised that flowers
In the summer days have birth;
And for the lovely hours
He sendeth to the earth.
That ilex, whose dark sweeping
Flings down so sweet a shade,
Seems as if for its sole keeping
A fairy world were made.
Amid the wild flowers lying
There is a graceful band;
The green leaves round them sighing,
And the lute is in their hand.
They are singing sweetest singing,
It riseth on the air;
Its way to heaven winging
As if its home were there.
