James Russell Lowell (1819–1891)

SO dreamy-soft the notes, so far away

They seem to fall, the horns of Oberon

Blow their faint Hunt’s-up from the good time gone;

Or, on a morning of long-withered May,

Larks tinkle unseen o’er Claudian’s arches gray,

That Romeward crawl from Dreamland; and anon

My fancy flings her cloak of Darkness on,

To vanish from the dungeon of To-day.

In happier times and scenes I seem to be,

And, as her fingers flutter o’er the strings,

The days return when I was young as she,

And my fledged thoughts began to feel their wings

With all Heaven’s blue before them: Memory

Or Music is it such enchantment sings?