Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls To the flowers, and be their sun. There has fallen a splendid tear The red rose cries, “She is near, she is near”; She is coming, my own, my sweet; THE BUGLE SONG. HE splendor falls on castle walls And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying. Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying. O love, they die in yon rich sky, Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying. TEARS, IDLE TEARS. EARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns |