Hear the wind and the sigh of the wave,
As it slides from the breast of the shore;
If my youth could arise from the grave,
Would it rest on my heart as of yore?

In her beauty as frail as the foam,
Would she whisper, and tremble, and fly
Stealing back to a desolate home,
And leave me more lonely to sigh?

No—she comes with a murmuring song,
And a whisper of wonderful years,
Of a journey together along
All the blossoming, musical spheres.

Till the night seems to break into bloom
And the song in my heart overflows,
As a seed, hold a splendour in gloom,
The earth, how it dreams of the rose.