II.

They call me through this hush of woods reposing In the gray stillness of the summer morn; They wander by when heavy flowers are closing, And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born. Even as a fount’s remember’d gushings burst On the parch’d traveller in his hour of thirst, E’en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn By quenchless longings, to my soul I say-- Oh! for the dove’s swift wings, that I might flee away,