From dewy dreams, my soul, arise, 
From love's deep slumber and from death, 
For lo! the treees are full of sighs 
Whose leaves the morn admonisheth. 

Eastward the gradual dawn prevails 
Where softly-burning fires appear, 
Making to tremble all those veils 
Of grey and golden gossamer. 

While sweetly, gently, secretly, 
The flowery bells of morn are stirred 
And the wise choirs of faery 
Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.