On Sabine hills when melt the snows,
Still level-full his river flows;
Each spring-tide now his valley fills
With cyclamen and daffodils;
And summers wither with the rose.

Swift-waning moons the cycle close:
Birth, — toil, — mirth, — death; life onward goes
Through harvest heat or winter chills
On Sabine hills.

Yet One breaks not his long repose,
Nor hither comes when zephyr blows;
In vain the spring's first swallow trills;
Never again that Presence thrills;
One charm no circling season knows
On Sabine hills.