What magic flutes are these that make
Sweet melody at dawn,
And stir the dewy leaves to shake
Their silver on the lawn?

What miracle of music wrought
In shadowed groves is this?
All ecstasy of sound upcaught, —
Song's apotheosis!

The dreaming lilies lift their heads
To listen and grow wise;
The fragrant roses from their beds
In sudden beauty rise:

Enraptured, on the eastern hill,
A moment, halts the sun;
Day breaks; and all again is still:
The thrushes' song is done!