Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come, 
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom 
Ye learn your song: 
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there, 
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air 
Bloom the year long! 

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams: 
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams, 
A throe of the heart, 
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes profound, 
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound, 
For all our art. 

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men 
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then, 
As night is withdrawn 
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May, 
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day 
Welcome the dawn.