Where the people did not dwell;
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
Nightly, from their azure towers,
To keep watch above the flowers,
Now each visiter shall confess
The sad valley’s restlessness.
Nothing save the airs that brood
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
That palpitate like the chill seas
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
Uneasily, from morn till even,
Over the violets there that lie
In myriad types of the human eye —
Over the lilies there that wave
And weep above a nameless grave!
They wave: — from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
