Page:National Lyrics.pdf/196



them not from grassy dells, Where wild bees have honey-cells; Not from where sweet water-sounds Thrill the greenwood to its bounds; Not to waste their scented breath On the silent room of Death!

Kindred to the breeze they are, And the glow-worm's emerald star, And the bird, whose song is free, And the many-whispering tree: Oh! too deep a love, and vain, They would win to earth again