From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,     From love’s deep slumber and from death, For lo! the trees 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.