Deep in my dreamland garden sways
A harp aeolian none remembers more;
Who cares, or listens what it says
In music that is o'er?

No fingers wake it; 'tis by chance
Alone its notes unechoed wake;
Think you the flower of beauty's glance
Through its dim tones could-break?

With none to hearken, all alone
Its breathings fugitive it keeps;
When the wind strikes a listless tone
It either sings—or weeps.