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 !
Frank Dempster Sherman.