Give me the hills, that echo silence back,
Save the harp-haunted pines' wild minstrelsy,
And white peaks, lifting rapt Madonna gaze
To where God's cloud-sheep roam the azure lea.

Give me the Lethe of the harebell's wine,
And in the fleece of silence folded deep,
Let half-heard echoes of an Oread's song
Breathe on the drowsy lyre of my sleep.