Asclepiadian: 2

When the rose is in bloom, violets opening,
Fresh and dewy, their leaves, let me, in early morn,
Wake the slumbering echoes,
Till the mountains have caught the sound:

Till from loftiest height, deep to the winding dell,
Cave and forest repeat, vocal, my minstrelsy,
As if dryad were greeting
Sweetly the tones of my Alpine horn.

Or when twilight grows dim, far in the rosy west,
And o'er green wood and crag sparkles the evening star,
Let me hear, in the distance,
Faintly the voice of the vesper hymn.

Where the lake spreads its wave, clear to the rising moon,
O'er the water it steals, whispers along the shores,
As if song of Undine
Rose from her hall in the deep below.
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