The sound of the rain
Which leaps down to the flower,
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower—
The murmur that springs24
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things—
But are modell'd, alas!
Away, then, my dearest,
O! hie thee away
To springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray—
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast—
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid—
Some have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the bee—25
Arouse them, my maiden,
On moorland and lea—