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is the summer, with her golden sun? —That festal glory hath not pass'd from earth: For me alone the laughing day is done! Where is the summer with her voice of mirth? —Far in my own bright land!

Where are the Fauns, whose flute-notes breathe and die On the green hills?—the founts, from sparry caves Through the wild places bearing melody? The reeds, low whispering o'er the river waves? —Far in my own bright land!

Where are the temples, through the dim wood shining, The virgin-dances, and the choral strains? Where the sweet sisters of my youth, entwining The Spring's first roses for their sylvan fanes? —Far in my own bright land!