  I hear soft breathings in the gentle breeze, Though whence or how they spring I cannot tell. They whisper on the hill and in the dell, Along the streamlets and among the trees; Like the sweet humming of a thousand bees In harmony, as if some magic spell Fashioned the dew to music as it fell, Like merry mermaids, chanting ’neath the seas, Or fairy chorus in a moon-lit grove, Or band of nightingales, each to its rose Trilling of love when all things else repose. Such sweet sounds haunt me wheresoe’er I rove Shaping themselves to words that sing to me, “Happy art thou of men, thy loved one loves but thee!” |
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